2:20 p.m. - 11/16/01
struckchord.
Dear Red,
My head is being a bitch right now, and I don't know how to stop listening to her. I love you too much to do anything she says, to believe anything she's telling me. She wants me to believe that you will have nothing to do with me now because I am too fat. The fun-house mirror I see myself in has grown wider and wider this past week. I can't hold up against it much longer. Or maybe I just want to believe I can't because it would be easier not to do this on my own. Maybe I know I can do it on my own and just don't want to.
I just don't want to.
I miss you more than I miss normalcy. I miss you more than I miss feeling purposeful and beautiful and all those other things I lost the day I signed up for an eating disorder. I want you back now, please. I know that I'm weak and diseased and I should be able to do this on my own, but I don't want to. I'm bored listening to my thoughts as put to music, and not being able to think about you without tearing my hair out.
I should call again but Stacy would answer, and she's already heard from me once this week.
chord
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