I want to be better, and I'm not going to do anything stupid and kill myself. I can't do that. I can't do that to my family. It's not because I really don't want to kill myself but it's because I don't want to go that way, and I definitely don't feel like doing that to my sister or my mom. They'd be fine eventually but my little sis looks up to me like I'm some kind of idol and I've screwed her up enough already.

I try to be this strong person because I don't want to seem weak, I don't want to be out of control. My head hurts and I'm very sick right now. Anyway, I just...am not the person I try so hard to be. I don't know who me is. I don't know her. She's some quiet, lame, weak little thing. And she'll be fat to be always. I'm working on it...but I've always been fat in my mind. I'm working on that self image, I guess.

I don't want to be a hypocrite anymore. I think I'm some feminist with super powers and I'm the worst kind of conformist. I mean, look at me and how pathetic I am.

Anyway, I've opened myself up way too much to someone tonight. I just freaked up and stuff. I've been doing that a lot lately. Freaking out. There's been less and less space between breakdowns and panic attacks and freak outs lately. It's scary. I'm losing control over everything.

I just want to stay home all day and drink water and sleep and never talk and never eat and never live. But I can't do that, I won't let myself. I have to try, but I'm so tired. I need help, you know?

So these past few days I've been unbearably miserable. I've taken far too many diet pills in the space of forty eight hours. I guess it's just another way for me to test my limits, I seem to enjoy doing that. So do other people. They enjoy stretching me as far as I can go until I break.

This past week I have been considering taking my life many times. For the first time in a while, it seems that now that I am so terribly depressed, no one seems to notice. Which is very good, because I really don't want to deal with the guilt and annoyance which comes with people always checking up on you and asking "what's wrong?" With those kinds of questions comes some unbearable weight of knowing this person just feels pity for you, that's all.

Since my huge binge yesterday, my weight has gone up a pound. I think that's not too bad, but inside it's bad, bad, bad. Terrible.

Today wasn't too bad, I still think I consumed less than five hundred calories, but it's better than nothing. I'm tired, very, very tired.

I am afraid to be alone, but I really need some quiet time. But I'm afraid because I honestly don't feel like living anymore.

I feel like there is no end to this in sight. And I don't want to end it, and I don't want it to keep on going. So I'm considering getting some real help. Not a therapist to lie to or a friend to lie to and tell I'm okay. Like real help. But the voice in my head keeps saying that there's nothing wrong and I'm not sick enough yet, I'm not dying.
But I think...I think I am. And I don't care.