11:15 p.m.

don't worry, please

I fasted this week until Thanksgiving. I hadn't eaten anything since Sunday night when I scarfed down two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Nothing except Diet Caffeine Free Coke.

You know what's the most frightening thing? I enjoyed it. I enjoyed feeling empty and light on my feet and I was even a bit happier I think.

I went to my uncle's house for Thanksgiving dinner, and though I didn't eat much I felt bloated and uncomfortable afterwards. I left shortly after dinner and pulled over in an empty parking lot and purged into a trash bag I had brought for that exact purpose.

I haven't eaten since.

Why is it that I know this is wrong, and I know this is bad, but I can't stop?

That I don't really want to stop?

I think it's because I know no one will love me if I'm fat. Or, that no one did love me when I was fat. Or now for that matter. I know people love me. But, not in the way I think I need. Not in the you're-so-irresistable-I-want-to-be-with-you-forever-and-no-one-else-or-maybe-not-forever-but-maybe-at-least-for-awhile kind of way. It's either I love you like a best friend and nothing more or I just want to fuck you and nothing more.

It's always been that way. I guess it always will.

Anyway, I'm not going to eat until the first of Decemeber. Longer if I feel ok.

Please don't worry about me. The feeling of fasting makes me happy. Almost euphoric. You can ask anyone around me; they noticed it, too.

I seemed almost happy.

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