Bea Gustavsson

Fool, said I, you do not know, silence, like a cancer, grows

Vet alltid vilka ord som sårar mest. Vinner alltid, men inte den här gången. Jag ska stå på mig. Fan heller att jag ,återigen, ska be om ursäkt för mina känslor. Aldrig!
... Är hela julen förstörd nu?

Nothing for breakfast. A diet soda for lunch. Maybe a little lettuce with low-calorie dressing for supper. Or once in a while, when everybody has gone to bed, a binge on ice cream, which you get rid of in the bathroom later. Relentless exercise. Obsession with food, cooking great quantities of it for everybody except yourself. In time, you come to look like a victim of Dachau – the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, the marionette arms and calfless legs. If you are told that your life is in jeopardy, it makes no difference, because not even dying is as fearsome as getting fat, a view that the combined industries of fashion, dietetic food, and advertising all endorse. In every respect but this, you may be as sane as everybody else. In this, you are mad as a hatter.
By Frederick Buechner