Quickie

I've spent the last two days in coffee shops playing games and writing on my laptop. Part of it is because I can't get internet service at home except on the family computer (which I prefer not to use), and part of it is because it keeps me out of the house. Away from my parents, away from food. I sit here and sip coffee for hours, occasionally ducking out for a cigarette in the frigid November weather.

I've been maintaining at 152 for the last 2 days, but my stomach and legs getting noticeably smaller. It's a small accomplishment, but an accomplishment nonetheless. Considering that I've been very good and haven't broken routine (keeping it under 200 calories every day for 4 days), I should see some weight loss by tomorrow. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll be in the 140's. *crossing fingers*

Nightmare

I'm in a car with two of my close friends, Chase and Stephanie. Chase is driving, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel, peering forward into the darkness ahead of us. It's winter outside, the sleeping trees covered in ice and snow. The road is small and treacherous, curving around impossible bends. Where are we going? I ask. Nobody replies. Stephanie is singing softly to herself, a song I know very well. I need you to know, I'm not through the night. Sometimes I'm still fighting to walk towards the light... it's "Courage" by Superchick. A song about Anorexia. The words echo in my head and I look down at myself. My legs are spindly and small, my arms bony and white. I shiver suddenly, realizing that I am wearing only a baggy t-shirt and black tights. Where are we going?

Still no reply. I look out the window and try to figure out where I am, but everything is dark and unfamiliar. Then I see a large building ahead, a mansion of some kind. No, it's a hospital. You need this, Lilly, Stephanie says to me softly. Then it dawns on me. Treatment. I try to scream but I can't. I watch in terror as we speed toward the building. Suddenly the car hits a patch of ice on a turn. Chase tries to straighten out but it's too late. Shit! He yells, tugging madly on the E-brake. We spin out of control, headed straight for the trees along the road. And then, everything is silent. There is no sound of tires screeching on the icy road, no screams. Chase's mouth is still moving, his eyes wide in terror. Stephanie looks away from me, tears in her eyes. And then I'm alone in the car, still careening to my death. I put my arms up as if to block the impact. I'm too young! I'm only 19! Panicked thoughts race through my head. Only seconds to live.

I wake up with a start, my heart racing. I blink rapidly in the dark and see flashes of the dream, still shots, frame by frame, trees and glass, blood, my fragile body crushed in the impact. Stephanie crying over my frozen, broken body. I scramble to turn on the light and the dream dies.

What an odd thought, dying on my way to treatment. It seems ironic, if nothing else.

Thoughts

I feel, I feel, I feel. I think, I know, I wonder, I wish. I feel, I hope, I pray, I see, I hear, I feel. I cry, I stop, I run, I look, I listen, I scream. I feel. There are too many emotions, thoughts, desires, needs, and questions in my head. Often times I believe that if I allow myself one more thought I will explode. Something inside me will snap, the pressure gauge will slide into "OVERLOAD" and I will blow up. My body will shatter into little oozy bloody pieces, flying from where I stand and get on everything and everyone. People will freak out and wonder how the hell a person can spontaneously detonate like that.

Sometimes everything fades into a dark emptiness that presses me inwards, a suffocating silence that drowns out all thoughts and humanity. I find myself unable to speak, think, or breathe. I stare off into space while my insides scream to feel something, ANYTHING, think, remember, TRY, look, LOOK, THINK. These are not even coherent thoughts, only a wordless tightening in my chest demanding life, thought, emotion of me. But these are impossible demands, because I am dead. I am nothing but an empty shell. Soon the shell collapses, and the silence pushes me harder and harder into myself until there's nothing left. People will wonder how I imploded, like a dead star turned into a black hole, the pull so strong that nothing can escape.

I am terribly afraid of being alone, and I am hopelessly addicted to solitude. When I'm around people - the constant buzz of attention and frequent calls of my name, the people who need my time and my listening ears - I can't handle it. The tangible fear and pain of humanity calls to me and I can't ignore it. I am constantly aware of their need, their suffering. It is only made worse by the fact that I know they aren't aware of mine. I tend to share a fake set of troubles, a shallow pool of concerns that lead others to believe I am open. Nobody knows about the deepest parts of my soul, the cracks and crevices thousands of miles deep that lead to a broken person. It is not socially acceptable to be depressed beyond hope or reason. It is not normal to be fascinated with death to the extent that I am. My need to come as close to death as possible, teetering on the edge without going over, is not a suitable topic for conversation.

So I keep it all to myself.