- A short journal entry.
I have relapsed. I have let my guard down and let the pain flow throughout my body, my mind. I have turned to the one thing that has always seemed to help me, the one thing that stood by my side at all times - my addiction. Yesterday at 3AM I couldn't take it anymore. I let the blade soothe my soul. I desperately try to hide those 5 red lines. If exposed, I feel naked to the world. I look down at them as I write this - Still such a bright red, the deepest still flaked with dry blood. I was afraid it'd soak through my hoodie at school - It reopened in Algebra. These things are my most private things. My possessions, my escapes, my way back to reality. I can't let anyone know...It's too dangerous. Give me a week and all will seem normal again. The cuts will scar and the scars will heal and fade...and my heart will be driven farther into sadness, guilt and shame. Who was I trying to fool anyway? Michelle? Strong? I think not! No one would be surprised if they learned that I have gone back to my old ways. They knew it would happen sooner or later. No one would doubt it. It is my fate to hurt and slice open my skin. I have no tears. The blood is all. Troubles, tears, fears, pressure, stress. And it can be wiped away until the next time. Leaving behind a trail of forever scars.

- Through The Eyes of an Anorexic.
[Note: I started this out as a letter type thing to a friend of mine but it wound up becoming a little look through my eyes, the way I see myself and how most of my days tend to go.]
hello old friend. i write to you on the early morning of September 10th, 2005. The time is 12:22AM. Why do I write? I can't help but to miss you terribly. I know there isn't a thing I can do about it but I want to tell you something... I am guilty of bleeding again. I had too much built in me - but that's no excuse. Please do not follow in my footsteps and relapse as well. You are doing so much better than I. I cannot help but to look at my delicate hands as I write. So fragile, so weak. The bones stick out awkwardly and the veins are disgustingly visible...more visible than usual. My eyes trace my hand in my mind. I watch as it goes down to my scarred, tiny wrists. Also, the bones are shown. My hand looks so out of place. Such a large hand in comparison to the wrist and arm it is connected to. I sigh. So much weight has been lost, along with all self-respect, dignity, confidence and control. But that is why I do such things to myself - I starve for the control of my body. The more days I fast, the faster the ounces and pounds disappear. I lay on my back, looking down at my frail body. I look past my shrunken breasts only to see my ribcage poking up and outward. My stomach sinks in and my hipbones are beautifully sticking out, showing how skinny I have become. Putting my hands on them makes me feel warm. I feel the hard bone covered by skin, and nothing more than that, in the palms of my hands. I stand. I look at my face in the mirror. My once so adorable, puffy cheeks of a child are disappearing as my face begins to look hollow, sunken. I cannot help but to touch my cheekbones. 'I will one day be perfect,' I tell myself. I smile to myself. My shirt falls loosely off my thin body. I remember back when I used to fit it perfectly. My pants fall loose as well. I believe I have dropped one pant size. "I am getting closer to the prize," I think. Smiling now at my reflection, I blink. My smile is a frown and the image I once thought was gorgeous is distorted and I see no beauty. Hideous and ugly, bony and thin. Nastily unhealthy - Look at my skin! Do you see all of that HAiR!? My skin has taken a yellowish tinge. Do you see how my long brown hair is breaking and becoming thin? Remember how thick it once was! My usually short nails are brittle and breaking. Chipping and flaking. This is beauty?
Walking up and down the stairs with such a heavy load on my back hurts. The bookbag rubs against my spine. I try not to cry out in pain. My legs feel weary. Sitting in my desk, my spine is hurting from the back of the chair. I wince in pain. My arms are bruised from carrying those books. In my P.E. class at school we have to run. Running is hard to do - I can't breathe. My heart hurts. But oh well - I must keep in shape. I keep pushing myself. Run MORE! Burn off all of those calories! You're disgusting and ugly - I hate you, you fat bitch! I press on. I feel weak but I can't stop now. I become so lightheaded that I must sit. I feel as if I am going to throw up...but what is there to puke? I pant on and on, trying to regulate my unsteady heartbeat. I become dizzy. I get up and start walking but my body is so numb. I know I will pass out cold soon. You just might win, Ana.
I go home and feel horrible! Today was such a bad day! Do I really deserve to live like this? What have I done? I want to cry. I slam my head against the wall hard. I wait for the tears to form in my eyes - nothing. I get up and walk to the door. I lock it. Going into the cabinet in my room, I pull out the sharp tool of pain - the blade. I calmly slit my skin. Then a little more...and a little bit more until I gasp out in pure pain and drop the bloody razor to the floor as I take my bleeding wrist into my hand. The blood just keeps on flowing. Not long after my hands are covered with moist red blood. Exhausted, I drift off to sleep where more nightmares emerge. I wake up crying - I stay up for the rest of the night. The next day it all starts up again - the hell. I skip all meals, I work myself to the bone, I come to home to my depression and addictive pain.
"One day this will all end."