Remember who I was

Last night I was looking at pictures of myself. Actually it was yesterday afternoon, just prior to getting my haircut because I wanted the same bangs I had years ago.

Looking at my round face surprised me. It was odd to see a different me than the one I have gotten used to over the last year. I can say now that I can see the difference, and I am different now than I was then.

I looked at her, she was brave, but sad. Lonely. Now, not so sad and lonely. Just anxious.

Anxious about gaining weight, becoming an alcoholic, being someone who can't help but sabotage themselves at every step. Anxious about what's next, not knowing, not being able to create the life I want.

Before, I could blame it on weight. Now, I can't. I mean, I can, I am still (what seems like eons) away from a goal weight that resides in the range of low overweight or "normal". I still have 70+ pounds to lose before a hard and fast sheet of paper can declare me "normal". As in normal BMI. I understand, I am tall, and have pounds of excess skin that could be a factor, but wen it is all said and done, at least 60 pounds have got to peel off before I can consider myself victorious.

So yeah, I guess I can still blame it on weight. But I don't. Now it is clear to me that the person I used to be was a little more resilient to anxiety. She ate it away, and did whatever she had to so she could have the life she wanted. Or what she thought she "could" have. So then, things weren't as big of a disappointment when they didn't happen.

I'm done posting about that.

Last night James had to peel me off the bathroom floor because I drank a bottle of wine in the span of an hour. I didn't get sick, just dizzy. And I laid down in my tiny bathroom and used a towel for a pillow and fell asleep. Not because I was tired, but because I was wasted. I had a flashback to being a kid and seeing myself do the same thing with my mom. As we went back to the bedroom, I kept asking where James was, because I was convinced that the person taking me to my bedroom was my dad. So wasted, altered reality.

Apologetic, and looking into his eyes this morning I saw his fear and sadness for me. This has to stop. It's everything I didn't want.

And it's entirely NOT who I was. This is a new facet of me, and I'm not pleased. And I will make changes, small changes, and nip this in the bud. Prune this wallow tree. Yes, I said wallow tree.

Off to walk. Or just get out of the house.

Something Big

Last night I shared with James bits of my blog.

I also gave him the address. I said "If you start reading it, you can never let me know" mainly because I don't want to ever censor myself. Not that I would, but knowing who my readers are is kinda scary. Because I would rather be as truthful as I can.

Everything I write is all in my head, it's the internal conversation that I have with myself. It's like taking the mute button and making it a speaker button. So there I am, my life on loudspeaker.

If you see this, Hi James. I love you. And I love that you don't judge me. I'll be home tonight to give you kisses at the door.

------

I am working through so many things this week-- the idea if I didn't have the struggle against my weight, what would my life be like. If I never lost another pound, what would my life be like. I got to that I would want to take care of my body-- to maintain the way it is right now. To treat it well, with good food, good exercise, being active. Feeding my creativity and my mind. To just be. OK. With. Myself.

It's nice to get there.

Its all a journey. A journey to me.

Is it bad?

is it bad to get moved by your own writing?

A couple years ago a friend comissioned me to write text for his most amazing dance solo piece. And we came across it the other day.

My life is written on the backs of sleeves full of tears and snot in lieu of Kleenex

Waiting on corners for him to show up

My life is written on ticket stubs and burned out metro cards and buttons from shirts I never owned

My life is written on the backs of coffee cups with red ring sides full of kisses shared with liquid happiness

My life is written on church bulletins and post-it notes in my mother’s handwriting written out in highlighters

My life is written on postage stamps to cards never sent to family members unseen and unheard

Picture perfect events that never happened while I was around

My life is written on white paper with black pen as I patiently wait for my cigarette to finish smoking itself

My life is written on the pills of my middle management wardrobe and “what do you do for a living”

Its written on the sidewalks of my worn shoes back and forth to make some money

My life is written on the empty boxes of food and banana peels that make up my pile of garbage

My life is written with cigarette stained fingers and spoken in acts of an addiction

My life is written on bathroom mirrors and plate glass windows, words following me everywhere till I have no where to run

There is no hiding from my life, there is no absence, no structure, it’s life

I collect these words as they trail after me, stuffing them into my body, eating them again and again, and throwing them up into small bits and pieces until finally someday, one day, someone besides me will be nourished by them

It's not as easy as a song, or as pretty as a picture, I can't touch it or feel its warmth or hold it as I fall asleep at night. I can't wear it like a cloak or funny hat, I can't smell it like the trash truck hurtling down my street at 4am.

I can't describe it other than black pen on white paper, written in my mother's handwriting, broken into my own language.

I had forgotten this girl existed. This sad and thoughtful and miserable person with a very good sense of picture painting in greys and blues.

At the time during this was written, I was working for a bank, not happy at all, on the second shift. I was miserable in my body, so so lonely, and just hoping that someday, one day I would figure out how to date someone, anyone. I ate too much, I smoked too much, I lived with roomates and was still pining away for some guy who's name I can't even remember.

It's nice to revisit her. She's still lonely. She can't believe that this relationship, this body, this life is going to last. She comes out every now and again, snarky, bitchy, whining, and angry. Like I said, nice to revisit, but not to stay.

However, I am moved by that person. Wow. I forgot she can feel and write. And so it goes. I'm in the process of uncovering great things about myself, and slowing down..... but how can I slow down when I have nothing to do all day but find a job--- well, dear reader, that is the key. Spinning my wheels is useless. So now I am enjoying the day and being productive without jamming everything in there.

She's a good writer. I like her.