10:57 p.m. - Sunday, Jun. 19, 2011
To simmer.
The Red Room. The one with all the mirrors. I sat, legs folded on the floor. Staring at the walls, the floor, my own lap . . .screwing and unscrewing the lid of my water bottle. Anything to avoid looking into that mirror. I've relapsed. Again. Too much happening in a single week to maintain control over the habit. Need to eat to regulate. Need to regulate.
My hands trembled as I spoke of the hate I held for my own body. Surprised it was coming out, and even still - surprised at my shaking hands. Need more time, but won't ask for it. Don't need to replace one habit with another. As I do anyway. Don't need to need. Don't want to.
I sent a letter to initiate a conversation. Feel out potential bidders. If they are willing, and if so - the price.
I don't quite think anyone could understand. Don't want to hurt anyone either. To go quietly amid the noise and haste . . .
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