“The truth is, I don’t think that you are going to live very long,” he told me last night. He said it just like that. This man pressed all the wrong kinds of buttons and even though I was crying uncontrollably, I asked him to drive me home. “I just want to help you get better. Why are you running away?”
Because the truth hurts. This week I had the same thought about dying – I just won’t admit it to him. I lay writhing in agony after a particularly bad binge that followed on the heels of an insane amount of laxatives being put into my system. My kidneys hurt all the time. My legs cramp. My stomach aches excruciatingly. Suddenly it occurred to me that I might kill myself (unintentionally). I lay in the dark, alone, and wept for home and for my mother. I want so badly to live; to love life; to be free. Dying would be a terrible mistake. It is not at all what I intend to do.