...then it hit me that, yeah, I am gonna die...

Launch.
Run.
Skid.
Stop.
Change directions.
Launch.
Run.
Skid.
Stop.
Change directions.

Back, forth, back, forth.
Suicides in the backyard; one two three, stop, one two three, stop, one two three four, stop, one two three four, stop.
Back forth, back, forth, backforthbackforth, faster, faster, heart pounding, full cycle, start again. One, two, one, one, two, stop. Pushups, 25, quick, quick, no waiting. Launch bottom half off ground, handstand to back bend, too weak for full hand stand, too unpracticed for graceful moves, land hard, back to pushups, suicides again.


....left arm goes numb.
Knees give out.
Kiss of cold concrete.




Fifteen minutes is all I got.
My fingers are purple.
My chest got tight.
I thought I was having a heart attack.
I'm past the point of hunger.
My body aches but I feel no pain in my stomach.
Diet pills, adderall, caffeinne, and water, quell the need to eat. My body screams it's effects. I'm fighting another infection that could go to kidneys, rationing my various left over antibiotics so I don't have to go to the doctor. I'm dizzy often, my knees are always hurting, my legs always weak. I'm running on borrowed energy, dropping weight like crazy, and I no longer care.

It's like for a while there, the promise of treatment alone was enough to make me try to get better. The hope of help was enough to inspire me to eat.

Now it's gone.
And it's like I'm too afraid to try anymore.

Eating no longer bothers me.
The migraines no longer scare me.
The fear of hunger pains are gone.
I am not depressed by this, though I should be.
I am not fully terrified of this, though I should be.


I think that I will become another statistic. I see this in myself. Another one of the many that die from related complications from thsi sort of disease. I'll never be the 60lb's that will send people into fear. But it will be subtle. Laying there, fearing a heart attack, I realized, yeah, yeah, this will probably kill me if I keep going.
But that didn't bother me.
What bothered me was that I didn't have the strength to get up and keep running through the pain in my chest.
That my legs wouldn't listen when I told them more.

It happened before.
But this time, I didn't cry because I wanted to stop.
I just got angry because I wanted to keep going.



I need to start working out more, if all I can do is fifteen minutes high intensity before thinking I'm going to have a heart attack.

Obviously, I fail.





My head is very sick.
Dear new readers:
Don't be inspired by me.
It's like finding the sight of a burning monk a beautiful thing, and lighting yourself on fire in tribute. It's morbid. You're watching someone die. And all your admiration will get you is a quick eruption into that same hellish inferno.



Seeeexxxxyyyyyy.

I'm gonna go collapse now, and ponder ways to get an inhaler, or to try and find a way to buy some nitro tabs, in case, you know, I really do have a heart attack...or if this is actually a precurser to that dreaded thing.



PS, psych appointment on Monday.
I weigh 10 pounds less than last time, not that it'll matter.
Whatever.
All he can do is give me more pills, and if he cuts me off, I'll ahve to find someone else.
They can't help me. I can't afford their help.
So they can't even give it.
It's okay, though.
They're used to turning a blind eye as their patients burn.


Like the symbol of the pheonix.
Only we starve away until there's nothing left to resurrect--nothing but fine ashes scattered to the wind.