Secret Ravings of a Homeless Witch


This is the post I wanted to write – the post I am writing despite still needing to do my romantical paean or whatever the heck rutting behind the chiffarobe sort of scene I’m aiming for.

I need to track exactly what I eat.  Or as exactly as the software allows.  I need to document my choices without curling up into myself.  Without yellowing and peeling as soon as I realize that I fucked up and then, trying to alter the record so that it isn’t written down, in digital stone, that I am a failure.

I have been really good and today, that fuck-up happened.  But if there is nothing to fuck up, and that is fucking with my head!  There was the Timely Garnet Extravaganza playing all day long in my undercarriage, with the glorious attendant rumblings of pain, sharp and bright like sheet lighting.  There was the financial dealings that have bled their way into my financial dealings which meant, at least for today, there was soup for leftovers and a crap outlook for grocery shopping. Then, there was me sealing that aforementioned soup shut in the microwave, and me in my new but already shaggy-dog looking poncho which is a look jokingly referred to as “homeless witch” by a sharp-tongued co-worker.  Whose sharp-tongue I usually appreciate and am amused by, but today, instead, felt rather a bit exhausted and irritated with.  I had put on makeup today.  I had pulled my hair into a cute ponytail.  Everyone was a little surprised at me getting the brunt of it, even him. Even though we all know that he just says whatever he thinks for better or worse. That’s the bit that bothers me, because nobody gives me feedback, really, and then, suddenly, out of the blue, this wry negative I have to laugh off.  I mean, I am totally down with witchery and wildness, but that wasn’t what he meant or what I had been gunning for.  I feel sort of messy and melted, but nobody’s allowed to pick up on that.  It sort of pisses on this idea that I thought maybe I was getting somewhere, yesterday.  It was feeling easier.  And today, I’m feeling like I can’t move two inches but for falling into another black hole of unsolvable problems.  Like my self-esteem got kicked in its imaginary junk.

So, the pizza I said yesterday, oh no, it’s crap, I would never eat it.   It is crap, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t eat it today because it Or the doughnut holes I am eating before dinner and probably in a minute going to have again.  I really wish I could have not.  But I did.  I have to own that I did it and not do it again tomorrow when things are going to be equally haywire.

Life is always going to jam me up.

I think the shame exists because I wish I could have some backbone in me that would feel obliged to say, hey, you are trying to lose weight and that means that you can’t do do what you did before.  This is what you want to escape.  You have to dig your heels in and pivot.  And when you don’t listen to your better voices, and you know you’re giving up time just to feel…not good or bad, but simply nothing, it’s embarrassing.  It’s embarrassing to say I ate maniacally and privately and in an attempt to keep myself from feeling regret about my job, regret about my body, from perceiving the failure I so often register myself as being.  Not resulting from my choices, but in-born, genetic, terminal failure.  I can hear the tsk-tsk, and the berating tone, and nobody’s said anything.  I make myself feel terrible so that I can keep eating poorly and have this same exhausting conversation over and over again.

But it doesn’t have to be.  Because before, I would do this binge-eating (which, I think in my personal history of bingeing and the collective one I believe exists, is not so bad) and nobody would know about it.   Food was medicine. Food was private.   Food was the panacea and where I didn’t have be nice and polite and silent.   I didn’t have to think about  I had the power to make sure I could get all I needed.   If I happened to eat publically, that was a social requirement, not nutrition.  Lately, though, all I needed is a hell of a lot.

So we have to say what is.   I didn’t want there to be rules I could fail, but there is still the desire that I want to meet. So we have to track what I actually ate.  Even if it’s “bad.” Even if it says that I took a flying leap.  Because we can’t work from nebulous generalities.  We do choose better when we know better, so pretending we can’t know – that it’s all incalculable intangible ATE GOOD or fluid, approximate ATE BAD, how do we replicate it or avoid it?  We end up pulling the same experiments over and over again, every time coming up REPLY HAZY, ASK AGAIN LATER.

Time for the bike and the floor.

Punky Brewster

pexels-photo (3)

Feelin’ kind of punky tonight.   I have lost 0 weight this first week.  In so doing, I have failed nothing.  I want to lose it as a concept a few percentage points more now, just organically, by keeping up these habits and knowing I have more effort left in store to give this.

Went to the Texas Roadhouse and did mostly as was intended, mostly.   That fucking bottomless bread that has some sort of hidden sweetness in it that I don’t even like.  It was really nice, though, that we were all able to talk like a human family together.  A bit irritable about something work-related (on a Saturday, too!) that is not immediately resolvable (is this a word?), and feeling just funny and punky and lonely and weird.   Writing things other than this really poorly, but enjoying the fact that I can do it even when the Crone and all her nodding retinue swears that I can’t.  That I’m blocked and locked up and don’t know my characters, when I do.  Bitches, I know them so terribly well they’ve been tattooed on me for aeons.

I am caught up on A Chef’s Life.  Tomorrow: soup.   I continue to read my third book of the year (happens to be Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert – feel a bit like someone distilled my most optimistic, empathetic, romantic regards for writing and I’m not sure if I taste the saccharine in it or if I’m just being a punk.   Have had some positive self-thoughts today, tried to be sarcastic, but this time the disingenuity was wholly on the part of the jerkface parts of me.  I kept thinking nice things.  I should stop before I end up believing them.

Figuring out that as soon as I want something to happen and I stop with my bullshit and get after it, I can have it.  It is basically tantamount to just needing to turn my head to the left.  Not even figuring that out, I know that much, just realizing the whole fucking psychological ping pong game my life is. Yearning being slapped back by vulnerability being slapped back by over-defensiveness being slapped back by desire being backhanded by shame.  Can we just sit still a moment, please?  One person, under her own power, indivisible.

Tonight’s soundtrack:


+300 story words.

The Dog’s Towel


I don’t know why I feel a bit fearful about coming back here and talking about myself even if I know that it is definitely the fastest way t get my word count done rather than poking at these files as I add and delete sentences here and there.  Even if I have done it before, literally thousands of times.  It is like anything else when I am working through anxiety.  Thick woody vines grow over the idea that I am free and safe and acceptable and doing the best I can and squeeze those premises until they get no air and the only path that’s clear is the old, stupid one that goes out of our way by miles and hours just to find flat, unswerving road.  I duck my head until my neck aches and scuttle towards homes.  These are old habits and I’m overwhelmed and starting to really understand how the things that were before are following me and that, too, freaks me out and pushes me towards regrettable choices.

I don’t want to say this out loud because it’s too despairing to think that it’s not just me not trying hard enough to fit more time into the day.  I want the worry to be something I could fix even if I am too worried to actually fix it.  Some of this is, however, out of my hands.

I have a lot of strange stripes of energies all colliding and combining and asking for my attention right now and I know what center is.  I know what the right path is.  I know what to do to move forward.   I find doing those things essentially impossible right now even as I stumble towards doing them.  So I feel guilty and imperfect and imperfect for using the world imperfect.   I am writing, and creating and connecting and feeling, which is, in the background processes of my mind, sparking other impulses – to sit long enough to draw forth the Faithful Light.  Stop this tarantella and begin again with the work I was sharing with my therapist.

Look in the mirror.  Drink the water you want to drink.  Stretch these bent muscles taut.   Make a checklist and stick around to check things off of it.  Put things away after you use them, right then, don’t think, don’t question, don’t let the muscles pull you into the drowning currents.

It’s Friday tomorrow, and in a week, a big work event that I am not entirely sure we’re ready for.  I am trying to recall the first year in my prior job and how it always felt like I was off and forgetting and unprepared and I got through eight of those and eventually came to a point of some competence.   I feel a shakiness that I know, in part, is just a response to that surge of thinking I knew what I was doing and driving and focus and going downtown.  It is two steps back I’m trying to forestall and just take the one. That would be good.


The Arrant Sentinel


Yes.  Virginia.  There was a letter.  A letter apologizing for making me a bit longer for a longer letter.  Mostly because he’s been getting into a game I recommended he get into.  There may a poem to discuss.  I don’t know, y’all.  It isn’t anything, but it’s something.  It’s nice.  It’s stupid.  It is problematic.  It is still just two people writing at one another.

And I have been burnt by such a thing before.  But at the same time, there’s Griffin and Sabine.  Letters have power, a good letter can change your mood entirely.

I know I keep talking (by which I mean writing here about it and there’s a couple people who know that I have…they know as much as I’ve shared in this space) about it and I keep thinking in my head that I should just shut up.  I should just keep it, selfishly, sensibly, in my head where it can’t get overworked and overwrought.  Even if this is where the rolling pin comes out and stretches this little ball of conversation into a bedsheet-sized crust.  Apologies, I’m almost done with Great British Bake-Off and these doughy, unfortunately carb-laden analogies will stop, I assure you.  I even know I keep on dithering and pushing forward, casually.  I keep asking myself what a grown-up lady would do, but I don’t like the answers I get.

I just keep thinking of things we should talk about with each other.  Is that weird?  Like I want him to read my writing and tell me what he he thinks?  Like I don’t know about hanging out as people, but hanging out as disembodied sentient spirits which access to a keyboard?  It’s, I like it, like…a lot.  Everything else right now feels the color of winter and I know my energy allocation is off, I just…I have to be here now.

The snow is falling and I am home an hour and a half early as a result.  My windshield wiper is broken, that’s exciting.  But at least that super expensive warranty I stupidly bought should cover it, but it probably can’t get fixed until after all this snow is done on Friday. And tomorrow morning, new boss is coming by so we can go to a continental breakfast for our Point of Sale software company and I…

I feel like I want to be clever and coy with a letter to read while curled up in these blankets.

I’m typing this up so that I can play a game and not look at my email.  That seems like a good thing.


My brain has turned to mush, apparently.  Maybe I need to eat something.  I don’t know. I could have used that time better, but I watched the Parks and Rec finale and now want to watch every single episode of that.  And it’s hours later than my first few lines here and I still haven’t eaten so I am going to rise from my own ashes here and get some food in me.

The Talkies


So I am realizing that I really wish I still was going to my therapist or that I could figure out the insurance tout suite to get a new one, because there’s some stuff cropping up right now that I think I need that format to deal with.  I think I need an impartial sounding board to advise me.  I am really feeling my mental incapacities lately.  I’m really feeling, is the thing, and I don’t like it.

If I am a knot and I’m slowly picking at that knot as I lose this weight, I suddenly am aware that this knot was tied for a reason and maybe there’s some ballast at the other end and if I get rid of it, I might fly into the sun.

…the thing that I’ve been mentioning over the past few days. is nothing, but if I let it, I’ve been reliably informed, it would not be nothing.  That he is curious about whether or not it might, in fact, be something.  And oh, dear reader, I am of every sort of mind about this.  I am twelve years-old again and there is an existential threat to my spinsterhood that I can’t quash by going and eating a whole bunch of terrible things and deciding I am too ugly for such coy games as I am playing now.  That there is only pain and embarrassment for everyone this way that I’m going.

I’ve done this before, danced up to the edge.  And always danced myself back down by eating, making a mess, fucking up the diet, refusing to exercise, laying still and doing nothing about anything until the worries dimmed. In fact, even now I’m wondering if today is the day for this month’s cheat meal, but I know if I get a few things from the store, I could make it through to next week when we’re having our pizza party and just use that as the meal.  Of course, I’m thinking that doesn’t really count and I’d just have salad and a bit of the top of some pizza and not charge it against this monthly allowance.  But, my mind is off the prize, my mind is starting to recoil as though it doesn’t even recognize it as a prize anymore.

How frustrating that these things coincide.  I should be happy.  But I don’t even…want to be?  I want inaccessible guys who will never compliment me nor know I exist.  This throws me, stirs my solutes into my solvents, brings out really awful and disturbing parts of my character.  Because I don’t know what it all means and I don’t…

All of it becomes an excuse not to push forward.  All of it becomes more and more ballast to keep me on the ground.

In other news, my half-sister and her boyfriend (who was a high school boyfriend she lost touch with) are getting married. Due to the conflicting and compartmentalizing nature of my psyche, I’m pretty delighted for her.  This may or may not mean we’d be going to England for the wedding like she talked about last year.  Which is pretty exciting and wonderful.  I called and told my mother that this was happening and she mentioned how great it was, and how maybe this would inspire my sister and her long-term boyfriend to get hitched and of course, maybe I would join a gym.

It’s…it’s stupid.  I feel so damn stupid.

Sugar on Jack: Day Two Hundred Eighty-Six


It is no small wonder that on a day full of emotions, I choose to focus on lust.

So, I think this is the last possible day that I will ever interact with the crush du jour, the quasi-criminal with the searching eyes and the self-amused expression.  Of course, long-term this is for the best, I guess, maybe, because he could be an asshole if I were to ever actually get to know him.  Hah, sigh, the comedy of tragic self-knowing.  The tragedy of self-amusement.   Short-term, unnnnnnnnngh.  You know, it’s rare in these days when I mostly hang out with septuagenarians who look over me like a placid, placating grandchild, to be around someone who turns your damn crank.  Whose crank you wouldn’t mind turning.  Who makes you forget for whole minutes at a time the laws and rules and biases that are against you and briefly, albeit only in the safety of your own mind, makes you just a girl who wants a boy.  With impolitic intent.

He came in late and I came in early, but there was a rush of desperate cries for help, work that needed attending to from the moment I got there so that I didn’t have time to do as planned which was to make the best of my bad face with a dab or five of makeup and so I had to make my expression one of apathy.  One where he was as of as much consequence to me as the length of blades of grass under the lawn furniture on the other side of the world.

Because I was all blemishes and lumpiness and messy ponytail and I thought about being vibrant and vital and funny and not worrying about the albatross that is this body, that it was all bullshit and impossible anyhow, so I shouldn’t even care.  But the thought of him would occupy my mind and it would corrode my apathy, erode my ability to stand stock-still and not allow my eyes to scan the periphery to see if he was still there.

I would walk down the road and think, babies…I would have his babies.  I would do perverse and terrible things with him and have a hundred thousand of his babies.  This is not a neutral state of mind.

He did stop me and ask me for my wristband like the rest of the madding crowd and on my work-related mission, I marched past him and said I had diplomatic status…immunity.  I was too far down the parking lot to stop and see if he laughed or even noticed.  Later, he spoke with boss and she joked with him about using his criminal past to help us poke holes in our limited security plan.  Then, I decided to work in the office and realized that was it.  That was my best attempt at converting the idea of an attraction into something legitimate and it was all blue on black.   It was no attempt at all.

Still, I think on those eyes that look at me like he’s reading me. Just a bit longer than you could say it was happenstance. I’m probably just an easy mark.  I probably give off all the desperation one could take.

And he will not be back around before the holidays, if then, he was here…for some reason of his own (if one doesn’t believe in doing things out of the goodness of one’s heart) and my leaving won’t change that.  Best I can do aside from go vote Republican until my eyes cross, is let current boss know, in a junior high sort of way, that I think he’s cute just to gather any intel she might have.  And then, add this cross to the stack and get to high-stepping.

Overloaded: Day Two Hundred Seventy-Seven

336148_5708i cannot allow myself to get sick.  I feel like it might be coming on, and I want to curl up and turn the light off that is flashing like it is guiding seafaring vessels home from behind my eyeball.  Writing this seems nigh on impossible.

i just will peck away at this keyboard until something comes out.

Today, I just got overloaded.  Too much pulling on my arm, too many emails shot like ninja stars at my face, too much need and noise and aggravation and now I feel the result.  I feel like a pile of shit with a sore throat and a head full of clutching pains.

That’s not a very alluring statement and I suppose that’s just testament to the fact that right now, right right now, I don’t really want to be sitting awkwardly in my bed with a neck that aches, a shoulder in my ear, and just one more goddamn thing that I have to do.  I just want everyone to back off and they can’t and won’t and it, has, I think, finally driven me crazy.  Or at least just filled up the decent-sized bucket of what I can take and all of the tasks and guilt and stress are splashing around like this storm  that has haunted the past week, held at bay for hours and then, when the night comes and the exhaustion lets the reins go a bit slack, it soaks the streets.

I’m watching the second 90-minute episode of the Voice which has taken up a good portion of my evening and kept me from completely flipping out.

Today, I went out to lunch with a volunteer who wanted to check in with me and thank me for being me and I feel so ungracious and ungrateful that she gave me a giant sack of crocheted blankets and hot pan holders and a jar of applesauce and I am only thinking about how I’m up to my neck in alligators and how I’d prefer not to be a pump for information and I need to get back to the office.  In turn, per usual, I don’t eat and then life, life rolls over and bites me in the ass.  I certainly have my part to play in this, make no mistake.  Of course, I also did not have the usual high-dosage of caffeine today and I think I’m going through the first terrible stage of withdrawal (I did have a few sips of coffee this morning, early) and I do sort of want to shudder and shake and murder with my own bare hands anyone who deigns to speak to me.   But doing that did mean that I was able to drive home without any major panicky (by which I mean driving somewhere I don’t intend to go to avoid what I think will trigger me.) episodes.  I keep realizing that caffeine and sugar lately just fuck me up.  When this is over, I intend to do something about that.

There are no extended metaphors here, it’s just one and done.