Heaving (7/365)

I am eating a plate of red pepper and cucumber with some Italian dressing drizzled on top.   It is 9pm and I also have a cup of water.  With ice because we are now fancy people, I suppose.

I have no answers as to how, truly, I will make this time different than others.  I do know that it is late at night and there are chocolate croissants in this house and as much as I want them, I don’t want them more and so they remain on the counter.   And I am, still the girl who hates vegetables with a rabid, instinctive passion where I find them selectively invisible when I open the refrigerator door no matter the fact that I bought them just hours earlier.  Bought them because I think I should.

Now I am trying to eat them because I think I should.  So I can buy more at the store and not feel like shit for letting them decay to ooze in the front of my eyes.  To have consumed some nutrients, some balance, some cheap gesture to this idea that I don’t just need to lose weight, I need to gain health.  And that’s as good as I can do.  I don’t think it will ever fly in the confines of my mind to just adore a sprig of asparagus.   But I have to do things I don’t want to do to get past the circle jerk, the circle of farming implements I keep stepping on and cracking myself in the face with.  Adulting.

It’s strange, because I was so irritable today and I think it’s only because I decided in my excitement to do a bit of a pre-weight loss check of the scale.  I saw it hadn’t really moved.  I was given pause, but there’s enough in my mind to keep me busy and I didn’t think I really processed it.  But it bothered me, I guess.  All the live-long day, a rage face.  The old cycle, the muscle memory that I can’t seem to shift out of.  I needed to eat, but even then, as you slouch toward Bethlehem, the whole reason feels obscured.

It’s not obscure.  It’s not two weeks ago that me myself and I had been on an epic binge.  Plates of cookies meant for whole squadrons went down my gullet, popcorn balls oozing with Karo syrup, waffles upon waffles soaked with maple syrup.  Anything sugary and sticky,…Starbucks beyond counting.  Pizza, and oh, word, the Chipotle.  It was extensive and out of control.  If they had been booze bottles, I’d have been dropped in some kind of detox facility.  Like a hungry fire no amount of wood could sate.

It was both typical and extra-intense.  It needed to be dealt with.

Now, I have to shift vision.  I have to give myself some joy and not fall down on the job. One monthly celebration worthy of a party and a night out.  Not lots of penny-ante wastes.

I can do this.  Just get me through to morning.

 

 

Selva Oscura (6/365)

It is going to take the whole year.

It is not going to happen overnight.

But if I keep going like this, it will happen.

I haven’t fallen off, nor given up.  I’ve bypassed treats, held my focus, kept walking.

There’s nerves around these posts for some reason.  I’ve paused for some reason, just like I’ve been angry today at my sister and mother – my mother who is awaiting news post a mammogram and doesn’t really have anything to do with the anger, and am trying to find out what that reason is.  Which, as we all know, is the best use of the written word.  To figure out why the fuck your head is no longer connected to the rest of you and maybe release the vise grip that reason has on you.

I’m mad, I think, at J.  But it’s so intermingled with being mad at myself for not speaking up about it, not finding myself remotely able to speak up about it, that I can’t unpack it and make demands about it.  It just is this third or fourth idea.  The first two are the thoughts of who we are as ourselves, the third is who we are together, and now, now it’s who we are not.   And we’re not together? But? It’s such a vast, near-Biblical sense of Purgatory.   Of me asking and being shut down for things that were once so readily given.  Of time having worked us over when I was confused and I am still confused.  I don’t want to ask him to move here.  I don’t want to say I will help him with everything he ever needs.  I don’t want to say I’m willing to rattle my already punch-drunk world to make my feelings clear enough that we can both take this seriously enough that I’d understand I need to say those other things or the third thought dies.

And then we have a laugh and a concerted moment of caring and I cry less than I want to but more than I should and I think about the last year, a year that my writing dried up, my thought processes deteriorated, my ability to question what was happening to me diminished because I was petrified that the truth is that I need him to do things for himself that he doesn’t and he needs the same for me and some of the sincerely held beliefs are at odds with my own.  Some of the essential things I want..parts of which I know he doesn’t.

And if you can’t speak honestly, then, what do you have?

I just know from knowing the tricks that are in his head, the faith he’s placed in me, the heart he’s given both literal and figurative and that half of my trouble is being halfway there.  Of holding back at critical junctures.  And the break I want won’t actually fix the root of the matter.  I don’t live a life that is fully accessible to outsiders.  The change I’ve felt in that regard is solely due to J.  He’s pushed, gently, and…

to be continued…