It’s early, and I guess I could sleep if I wanted to...but I really don’t feel like it. I was reading ‘Wasted’ by Marya Hornbacher and I just can’t sleep. It makes me think too much... I identify with it, but not in a direct sense. A Maybe I just wish I could identify. I just feel like writing right now...writing whatever comes out, whatever I’m thinking and whatever I’m feeling. I haven’t written in awhile...I think the gift of writing comes when I’m up late after a hard day of binging and purging repeatedly. I think the loneliness of being around my parents and the feelings of unworthiness and the feelings that I never could measure up to their unspoken expectations for me spur on writings. I miss writing.

But now...I am content to feel nothing.

To be nothing.

To just exist, except not really exist. Because what I’m doing now is really not existing. I don’t feel real...I don’t feel like I’m doing anything in this world. I’m so sick of not having a purpose. And yet, I know what my purpose should be...but I’m choosing not to fulfill that. I’m scared...I’m scared of people, scared of failure...but why should I be scared of something that i have so much experience with? I’m just so SICK of living a life that’s worthless...a life lived for myself and a life void of God. You seem so far away right now, God. I can’t feel you, I can’t see you...and the silence is deathly silent. It’s disturbing. Where are you? Are you watching me? I choose to believe your promises you have made to me...but isn’t there something about a consequence for sin? What about sins that I don’t repent of? Why am I so numb...so uncaring about anything and everything? You’d think I’d care about other people’s souls...but even that I’m doubting. I’m doubting everything. What am I worth?

I think I’m so ugly. I look in the mirror and I see a huge nose...an awkward smile. Then I slap on some makeup and in the Fazolis bathroom mirror I look ravishing...gorgeous. I’m alive to serve myself and I’m sick of it, because I don’t think I deserve serving. I’m not funny anymore.... I’m just there. I’m selfish...I make my lips bleed, I bite my fingers and eat my fingernails and I like it. I do it unconsciously now...and it would be hell to stop...or, to try to stop.

While I was reading the book, I had a big urge to CUT myself. Because of how many pounds I weigh? I doubt it. Just because. Because...I just envision myself STABBING my thigh with something...a knife, anything,...and it going all the way through. Maybe it would prove that I’m worthless...that I’m merely a body. Where has my soul gone? I don’t understand all this...it seems so lofty, so incredibly crazy for me to think about how a soul like mine is attached to this body (I swear I’m high) or where i go when I die. It’s something I could think about for DAYS...months maybe. Pondering and thinking and pondering again and again. I”m enthralled by spiritual books.... although I’ll buy millions and never read them. They boast promises...like freedom form sin, freedom freedom and freedom... what IS true freedom, Jesus? What IS it anyway? I know your answer...sometimes I just like asking questions simply to be heard...to acknowledge that I’m intelligent enough to have questions about the universe and to remember. To remember that I think, that I feel, and that this time in my life isn’t just passing me by as the past four years have... numb and void of emotion.

People bother me and I’m confused as to why I want to kiss Seth all the time. I love His mother...I want his mother to be my own. She cares about her son...she jokes around with him. And, yeah, their lives aren’t perfect...but I still feel pain because I never got the mother I should have had. But what does that matter, because I have CHRIST? Because Christ DIED FOR ME, to SET ME FREE FROM SIN, and because he so desires an intimate relationship with me??? But again, I’m just quoting church answers at myself. How long will it take before I believe it heart and soul again?

I want to touch lives. I want to do something that will last. I want to affect/effect people so that they will never be the same again.

I see how some guys look at me. It makes me so angry.... not so much at them, but at myself, for being a sexual being and for having boobs and a pussy. For having somewhat of a pretty face, when painted. I just take out all my self - anger on them...complaining about ‘Mexicans hitting on me’ and the ‘odd man in wal mart who hit on me’. Maybe part of me likes it. I am something when they hit on me...I’m a body. That’s more than being simply nothing.

I know I could never become an actual whore. But I think I may have the mentality of one. I know I’m not worthless, but I certainly feel worthless.

I had a feeling of worth when I was in treatment, I know I did. I was so happy there.... But still, something must have been missing for me to go back to builmia...to the thing that has held me captive for so long.

I just want to disappear. I want my life to disappear...I want this year to disappear. I try to hide from people, I don’t make friends because I’m scared of being vulnerable. I’ve made mistakes in the past telling people about my bulimia...I swear to myself subconsciously that I’ll never do it again. I want to block out the world...I want to block out everything. I just want to die. But do I really? No, I think I actually want to live. I’m dead right now..I just want something. Something to satisfy my hungry soul. Something more than just eating and puking... finding my bodies’ worth through guys who’s dicks think more than their heads do... and feeding my animalistic nature with everything it thinks it desires.

What is truth? Should I cuss when I pray? I haven’t been praying lately...I think because I don’t want to remember the times when I’m doing bad. I think that prayer is worthless when I’m sinning...when I have fallen, because I mean really, what’s it going to do if I’m not willing to give it up and surrender my sins to God? To place myself at His feet and to crucify myself? Again there I go...using all those fancy religious words... when all I really want is CHRIST himself. The one who came... the one prophesied... the one who is a MAN and GOD in the flesh. He has what I want...although I don’t really know what I want. Is it true that He is the truth? What is truth...what am I looking for? Will I ever find what I’m looking for? Maybe if I keep going around and around in circles I’ll realize that I’m looking for something to be looking for. I’m looking for my hearts desire. I felt it tonight in the car as we went to Little Rock. I let myself feel the desire inside of my soul...in the depths of my spirt. It scared me...the little that I felt. It’s strong...it’s passionate...it’s intense. I’ve never felt that before (well, I have...but not for a long time.) Maybe that’s what i’m trying to silence. The desire of my soul. It’s not good to want things...it’s not good to let my desire run wild. I was taught by my mother (covertly of course) that you need to keep a hold on things...everything needs to be controlled. I want to have sex, but I’m so scared. I don’t want to have sex.

Where is the guy for me?

Will I ever pull myself together so that I can fall head over heels in love with YOU, God? How do I do that anyway? And why the fuck do you keep running after me time and time again..although I just keep running in the opposite direction? Keep writng until I find out what it is.Oh God, I just want to cry. I want to cry and cry and just WEEP on someone’s shoulder, someone who woudln’t ask what was wrong, someone who could forget about it in the morning...someone who woudln’t try to make things better but who trusts that You can make things better. Will you make this better? This pain that I feel...the dulling effect that I cause myself...I don’t even know where this comes from. The binge and purge last night, obviously. I can’t remember things anymore.... I just want to curl up in a ball and be a child again. The future scares me. I can’t imagine myself 20...let alone 36 and having a job and kids and a husband and a real life...all of my own, with a house and bills and all of that. I feel like I’m 2 still...and I don’t know if I like it or not. At the same time, I want to get out...just get away from everything and everyone here...get out into the real world where pain is an everyday occurrence, where people are taught to be tough and where cocaine is readily available. Where I can be free to have problems and free to be scared. But I’m here. Why? Why why why? I could ask that question all day..every day. And never have an answer. But what is the question exactly? I don’t even know what answer I’m looking for. I don’t fully understand the question...could you repeat it? It’s repeated...but the maddening confusing still raps at my door.

I wasn’t raped as a child. I couldn’t have been. The shame I once felt as I laid in my bed is now gone. Its’ simply not there anymore. Maybe, if there was something that happened to me...maybe I’m not ready to deal with it yet. So I think I’ll forget. But no, tomorrow, I wont forget. I’ll want to read more of that book...and highlight stuff. Maybe it gives me something to do. Am I just pretending to have someone else’s’ life...someone who has more things to cry over than I do? Someone who has abuse issues from her childhood...something I can ‘pin’ this eating disorder on?

The hole in my soul feels gray. It feels like it’s filled with something... something...like a balloon. Something that could pop at any second.

Suddenly, i’m scared. Scared of what might be lurking outside my door. Scared that I will be tired in the morning...I don’t want to go to Pineview...I want to be close to people, but I hate them all the same.

If a guy doesn’t look at me lustfully, I hate him. I cuss at him in my head and wonder what is wrong with him...or rather, what is wrong with ME. What is wrong with ME because I supposedly don’t look right...I’m not worthy enough of their time... It scared me that Jake actually respected me. Maybe it was more of His stuff...with his last girlfriend or whatever, but still. He didn’t try and rape me, as I thought he would. I got a high from being able to control him...but when that control stopped... I hated him. Maybe I always hated him. But one things for sure...I always hated myself.

Or haven’t I?

Will I ever stop thinking? Will I ever come up with answers that fit what I want them to say?

Maybe I don’t want to hear the truth. Maybe I’m not ready for the truth. Where is God...where is the miraculous healing? But at the same time I’m asking that question...I know there’s no ‘miraculous’ healing. It’s all a joke... a joke that I’m playing on myself. Maybe I’m continuing to binge and purge in hopes that God will perform a miracle on me.

There’s nothing beautiful about my life.

I eat until I can’t move.

Then I puke...after scrutinizing my body and picking at my face until it’s red and almost bleeding. Then I look at all the blood vessels around my eyes... check out my swollen cheeks, and head out to a world who has no clue about my secret. To a world that may be too scared to begin to care.

I just don’t care, myself. I don’t remember all the friends I used to have... I just remember being a hyper annoying teenager who puked and felt worry for herself...who wanted to be a rebel but never really had the balls to do it. Now, I still have the same desires, but I’m a legal adult and too scared to try it. Still scared...scared of myself, that my desires will overwhelm me and I’d end up dead. But maybe dead isn’t such a bad thing. I keep telling myself that my past is more horrific than it really is...when in fact, the worst thing that’s ever happened to me was that my cousin tried to strangle me in 2nd grade and a guy said I had a nice rack in 8th. Big stinkin’ deal. Get over it. The sounds aren’t really that deep that they will injure for a lifetime.

I want to eat a candle. I want to eat lotion. Why do I have this obsession with lotions and smells? Because they can change who I am..because with them, I become something different. People notice my smell, not me. They notice my makeup, my clothes, my flipflops which i have too many of right now...or else they notice my ulgy face, my tired eyes, my messy hair and my unproportioned body with it’s protruding thigh muscles (which really aren’t there at all...I just tell myself that to make myself feel better...when in fact, I think my legs are fat and too muscular at the same time) instead of noticing and trying to get to know the real beth. Who, by the way, I show a rare amount of people anyway.

What does TRUSTING God mean anyway? What does it mean GOD? To trust You?