Sunday 25th September 1999
Dear Diary,
I can feel it happening. My mind is racing, and every other thought is related to food, weight, hunger or bones. Perhaps this is how I ground myself? This is where I find consistency? As my head darts about in all directions, food brings it back always to the same point. And, like a lighthouse, this obsession leads me safely from the turbulent crashing waves of confusion, to the safe, peaceful shoreline of predictability. Hunger is predictable in the most part. Weight loss is predictable too.
I didn't want this to happen again; I wanted to make the most of University life. I imagined finishing my first year, well fed and content; perhaps with friends who understood me or even a lover of some description. Falling prey to this tedious illness again was never part of the plan. So here I sit, pen in hand, hoping to reduce the weight of excess thought by spilling my soul onto this paper. If I reduce the thoughts, perhaps I won't feel so intolerably big. Perhaps my mind will slow and I will take a few deep breaths and start back on the path that I had planned for myself. I must be strong.
Sherlock Holmes
x
