you do not have to be good.
the more i think about it, the more i need this tattooed on my being as a reminder.
i can know this. i can memorize this mary oliver poem and i can share it and i can tell people 'you belong, of course you belong, just as you are, exactly as you are existing in this moment.' i can imagine this for everyone. i can imagine what glorious beams of light people would be if they remembered this.
but not for me. not for me. never for me.
and wanting it changes nothing. having others tell this to me changes nothing. and i wonder where this comes from and why, deep down, do i believe i don't deserve it?
this wounded creature inside of me feels like this is impossible.
how long does it take to undo?
my parents are different people these days. i love who they have become in their old age. i can almost accept my mother's stubborness because i see so much of that in myself. but outside of these familiar traits, they are easier people. i'm glad that their life experiences have made them softer and not harder. life is not as much of a struggle. they are finally at home here in america and they have community and love and all those things necessary to feel like they belong with nothing to prove.
i will never live up to your expectations and that kills me.
existing in this world, in this body, exactly as i am, is the single most hardest thing i've ever had to do.
and i do it everyday.
it's a wonder why i nap so much.
food is easy and i'm lucky enough that it is regularly available to me, so it's been the best and most convenient way to cope.
drugs were nice but hard to come by and much more expensive monetarily and emotionally. i have fond memories of ecstasy. i'm too old to call it molly. i don't even know where that came from. i remember feeling complete, full of enough love for everyone in the world that it came spilling out of me. i remember feeling weightless and easeful and i remember loving everything about myself in that moment, from the cargo pockets in my favorite rave skirt to the bad home dye job with patches of skin still dyed pink and purple, to the old lady glasses i used to wear. i was fine with all of this. i was more than fine. i was elated with myself.
24-48 hours later i hated myself more than i could ever imagine. depleted of serotonin, unable to care for myself and my poor frazzled nerves. drugs were totally awesome until they weren't.
food was a safer option for riding that train to my happy place and i could eat whenever i wanted and no one ever had to know what i was eating or how much or why.
there was usually a similar hangover after eating though. it's interesting that the food hangover was filled with much more shame than the drug use.
no matter how well you think you know me i won't ever believe you when you say you love me.
when you say you love me, the first thought i have is "but, why?"
it feels like this bottomless pit. this deep deep well of sadness that is never ending. sometimes i think i'm just biding time until this is all over and the big sleep will come and maybe then, i'll be able to breathe.
this is the most dramatic thing i have probably ever said, typed, whatever. this feeling comes once in awhile and i don't know what causes it specifically. it never stays for very long, but i do feel it. and then i worry about it because i know it's not good. and then i look down and one of my dogs is staring at me and i remember that this is temporary and i get up and give them a handful of treats because everyday they save my life.
a tiny part of me knows and understands that i have a very specific place in this world. i can't describe what my role is and often it feels so miniscule and unimportant but then i'll make the most amazing batch of cookies i've ever made and all of a sudden i want to invite everyone in the universe to my house to have them. come over, they just came out of the oven and they're falling apart and melty, but only for a small amount of time so you need to come over now. this is all i have to offer the world and there's a deadline to enjoy them while they're perfect.
i want to tell people my story but like most storytellers, i only want to tell you the important good stuff, like how i triumphed over evil or how i overcame some impossible feat.
no one wants to hear stories about suffering that does not have a guarantee of a happy ending. or even a satisfying ending. or any ending at all.
a lot of the criticism i've heard about roxanne gay's memoir 'Hunger' was about how unsettling the end felt.
i was like, 'yeah, it's cause she's still living and it's still fucking hard.'
i'm still living and it's still fucking hard. and then i write shit like this and then feel guilty because there is pain out there much larger than mine.
i can only seem to write in these vignettes because the moment i try to write something longer my brain does everything it its power to divert me away from the truth. i'm self sabotaging to a degree. it doesn't want me to go too deep. i've been avoiding writing because there is something inside of me that is afraid of what i'll find out if i tell my story, or more like, who i may become if i share it.
so i live in what seems to be the safety of 4-5 sentences.
but how safe is it really if i'm just boiling it all down to the most important words?
i tell him how i can only write twitter style, in small chunks, otherwise, i become distracted and the urge to run to the mind numbing emptiness of facebook is great.
i also tell him the community pool has an open swim time starting in half an hour or so.
and then i start crying.
"i don't know whether i should keep writing or if i should go to the pool."
making decisions is hard and so much of this can feel so dumb.
I wonder if watching the entire season of Queer Eye has made me feel this dumpy. I saw some recent candid photos Jeff took of me this week and I couldn’t get over how sloppy I looked. My typical work from home uniform consists of one of many pairs of black leggings, a tshirt and a hoodie. I don’t really do my hair. I’m lucky if I brush it. Often I keep it up in the 1/2 pony I put it up in at night before going to bed. When I wake up in the morning it’s loose and unwieldly but I notice it, dislike it, then open my laptop to start working. The minimum I do in the morning is put on a bra and pants and then I hit the ground running.
No one outside of jeff really sees me. My physical therapist sees me at 7AM twice a week but my disheveled attire is almost expected of me at 7AM. I’m not dressing up for 10 minutes on a recumbent bike and some painful joint manipulation.
Although I was unhappy with the way I looked in these photos I feel like I am unwilling to jazz up my everyday work wear with something fancier. I’m not willing to sacrifice the comfort of elasticized clothing to not feel so sloppy because I’d rather be comfortable than look like a contributing member of society.
Being in this skin, in this body, is uncomfortable enough.
I sometimes find myself looking for a snack because I’m bored.
And food is delicious and exciting.
I often feel like this makes me a bad person and only because I’m fat.
This is the shame society wants me to feel.
If I was conventionally thin and wanted a snack because I was bored no one would give two shits but because of the size of my body if I want to eat something because I'm bored everyone would be concerned about my pending diabetes and heart problems.
it's now 3:09 PM and i'm too late to make it to the pool on time before open swim ends so I guess I'll keep writing.