Wednesday, Oct. 08, 2003/2:12 am

Friday 3rd October

11.20am

I am blotted with ugly bruises from all the continuous blood tests. Grey marks shading veins that have been pressed with stinging needles. My legs ache from the amount of insulin shots i am now prescribed to take. 4 a day, of two completely new types. My old, two doses of mixtard 30 & 40 weren't benefiting me at all. They couldn't adjust to me erratic eating. The new plan allows me to change units according to intake. I have long acting Glargine with the evening meal which keeps a steady supply of insulin throughout. Then three short acting hits of Novorapid, each at breakfast, lunch and dinner.

This arrangement has only just become possible on the market and is making a huge difference. My levels are balanced, especially compared to before, a plot that swung up and down way too frequently. My body now seems to be able to cope much easier under those particular unfortunate habits i possess.

Yes, i am an idiot. I'm stupid and I'm an idiot. Going around in a loop cricle. Empty, emptier, not a crumb remaining. Purging everything, and getting away with purging everything. I might try and keep some lunch down, I'll just have to see how i get on. I know i should try to prepare for the bleak sight of admission and closure in ****** ward but i can't help challenging treatment whilst i have the chance.

The disorder is just too strong, and my figure too weak. I feel run down today, probably because of my numerous slip ups to the toilet. Speckled vision and a glimmer of those familiar white flecks before me. An attack of dizziness and lethargy. Normality.

I admit it. Some of the nurses here are not too awful. Some i do flinch from, but a few particular inderviduals i have warmed to. One with a button nose and blonde hair, another with black ringlets, and another with glasses and gap between her teeth, then Paula the Irish cat enthusiast. I'm still very wary and anxious of anyone though. The observers that continue to guard and block my little freedom linger around and try to chat but i don't respond. Sometimes i can be quite rude but i really don't care. I object to them and their useless reasoning. I've even had excuses from the so called specialist who arranged it. She said that her message was misunderstood, i should have been informed and it should never have been so strict. I'm so fed up of damaged signals and messages.

I don't know how today will be. They are going to weigh me. The number set to provoke reaction.

Keep trying to smile. Obstruct the broken pieces within crumbling to grain, tied with clumsy tape, holding patience together.

I want it to rain, so i can look into the dreary mist and perhaps feel less alone.

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2.45pm

My weights the same as a week ago. Exactly the same. I want to lose. I want it lower for Wednesday. I know just how to do it and I'm not thinking straight.

The concept of future pounds multiplying and duplicating beneath pushes my misery to heights. But it's going to happen in London. I've never been dainty. Never been compact enough. In my view I've never been to the essential extreme. I may have clasped the bony palms of death but my sharp edges still don't measure up. I will always wonder where i could have ended up, when would it have been enough?

Clothes will become tighter, juts will disappear under soft, terrifying flesh. Suffocation in myself. I'll probably relapse as soon as I'm out. I can imagine it now. Setting foot in the house and turning back to the temptation.

The forces of anorexia.

The magic of mutilation,

Thrill of termination.

Erasing the unconvincing good, and leaving the bad, because the bad thoughts are the only ones i can agree with.