You see, I still, after all these years and all these lessons, I still succumb to my eating disorder daily. Don’t get me wrong, it looks a lot prettier than it used to. I don’t pop laxatives like candy and I don’t end a feast on my knees in front of the toilet. I don’t even eat to the point of pain anymore, no third or fourth or fifth servings- no half-gallon of ice cream straight out of the carton. Yet I still…
Because all the #MeToo’s has me wanting to remind women, you can tell your story and it can be healing. There was a day A day she began To crave the destruction Of hands raised in fury Of jagged edged words Of nostrils flaring over thin lips There was a day A day she decided To… Continue reading There Was a Day
Since childhood I had held my personal night at bay with artificial light of my own design: third helpings of pizza and forgetting myself in five books a day, outrageous lies and sexual exploits, hash laced joints and lines of meth, camel menthols and twelve hour workdays. I had always lost myself in a hundred things so that I never had to face the night inside.
The old gray donkey, Eeyore, stood by himself in a thistly corner of the forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, ‘Why?’ and sometimes he thought, ‘Wherefore?’ and sometimes he thought, ‘Inasmuch as which?’- and sometimes he didn’t quite know what… Continue reading Loving Eeyore
“I turn women into perfect 10’s,” my cosmetology student boasted, sweeping his gaze down my form. The implication, of course, was that he could fix me up. Take me from my current rating, which whatever it was, certainly wasn’t a 10, to that elusive pinnacle of beauty that women crave. For a moment I didn’t… Continue reading A Perfect 10
I love swim class. Really. When I walk into class and see “100 easy, 300 kick/pull/swim, 50 scull, 50 seated breast pull” scrawled on the board, I cheer. I’ll do dolphin kick for days. I’m totally content practicing breast stroke all class. I’ll earnestly work on my back stroke for an hour. There’s only one… Continue reading This is Only a Drill
It’s 3:34 a.m. and I’m blogging. Why up so early, you ask? Well, at 2:50, when my husband’s stupid early alarm started whining, instead of rolling over and slipping right back in dreams, I started worrying. Instantaneously upon awakening, I found myself consumed with anxiety that I might one day develop urinary incontinence. I have no… Continue reading Out of Control