Sunday, November 24, 2013

Close Object-Scarf

A beautiful pink,
Soft as silk. 
Fringe at the end
That flutters in the wind. 
Planned Parenthood logo, 
Carefully embroidered on the edge. 
An unexpected thanks
For a day answering phones. 
It's a soft reminder of why I do what I do. 

Broken Heart


The first time it broke I was 17. The boy all of my friends told me I should date had started dating another girl. I didn't particularly like him, but in the manner of most high school girls, I felt like I should have a boyfriend. I cried for a week. 
Six years later, I ran into him. He was working at Taco Bell and living with his mom. 

The second time it broke I was 19. My first girlfriend had gone back to her ex. I sat waiting for her, as the dinner I made her slowly got cold, until midnight on valentines day. The next day, she called to tell me that she had realized she was still in love with her ex and that she would be by later to pick up her things. We would get back together three weeks later, then break up again. It was a pattern we would continue for almost two years. 
Fourteen years later, I'm friends with the ex and the woman I thought I loved is living in Montana with an abusive man and their child. 

The third time it broke I was 27. The woman I loved wouldn't stop drinking and getting high. I begged and pleaded, bargained and cajoled. She spent all of our money getting high and drained my savings account to buy tequila. She told me she didn't like drinking but that she didn't want to stop. On our anniversary, I told her the only thing I wanted was for her to be sober for a week. She agreed and said she really wanted to change. Her sobriety lasted less than a day. 
Seven years later, we are friends on Facebook and she has been sober for five years. She said when I left she realized she needed to get help. 

After three heartaches, I wrapped my broken heart in barbed wire and poured a layer of concrete around it, and made sure nobody got close enough to hurt me. 

Four years ago, my niece was born. My heart broke open with joy, and I felt a kind of love I never knew was possible. I became softer, happier, and my heart, broken by lovers, was healed when I held her. 
Two months after that I met the woman I call my wife. The barbed wire is gone, the concrete has been broken down and my heart is free again. 

Fences

Inside Looking Out

Standing by her best friend's car
She looks in his angry eyes
And wonders why he's here

She hears him yelling at her
"We'll help you and your baby"
"You don't have to do this"
"You're going to regret this"
She knows she is hearing lies. 

She finds herself judging him
Wondering why she's here. 
It's none of his business anyways. 

She turns to walk inside. 
Just another Saturday at the clinic. 


Outside Looking In

Standing on the sidewalk
He looks past her sad eyes
And knows why she's here. 

He starts telling at get
"We'll help you and your baby"
"You don't have to do this"
"You're going to regret this"
He knows he is telling lies. 

He looks at her and judges her.
Wonders why her boyfriend isn't here, knows it isn't his business anyways. 

He turns to harass another woman. 
Just another Saturday at the clinic. 

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Fuck

"Fuck" ,she cried in pain. 
Looked up at the cliff. She knew
she'd never be found. 

"Fuck!" She pushed again. 
She heard the baby's first cry, 
knew it was worth it. 

"Fuck" he shouted. 
I told you 'Don't touch my guns'. 
Smiling, she shot him. 

A Story in Five Sentences

Vegans of fifteen years, Pam and JB were well known in the vegan community. JB ran a popular vegan blog and Pam was a nutritionist who touted the benefits of veganism. One day, while searching for the soysage, Pam came across a strange package hidden underneath the tempeh in the refrigerator. Upon opening it, Pam was horrified to realize that it contained Hickory Farms sausage. Judging from the look on JB's face when confronted with the package, Pam knew it wasn't the first time. 

Monday, November 18, 2013

My Favorite Holiday

Crispy, cold air. The smell of woodsmoke in the air. Big smiles on kids faces. Bells, jingling everywhere you go. 
I love Xmas. I'm not even Xtian and I love it. 
I love seeing my niece shriek with joy when she opens the tool set or the books we got her. Everyone else gets her dolls but she knows Aunt Kerrie buys her fun gifts.
I thoroughly enjoy the White Elephant game my family plays---the rule is you must bring something used to exchange. One particularly ugly set of towels made it to the White Elephant six years in a row, until one of my aunts finally took them to goodwill. 
I am overjoyed by the food. All of the women in my family are always dieting so there's more pie for me. 
I don't generally like my family, but for a few magical hours on Xmas Eve...we all get along. 

I adore spending Xmas Day at my in-laws. C's mom always slips me a fifty dollar bill and tells me, "Don't pay bills with it. And don't buy C anything with it. Spend it on yourself". 
It makes me laugh when her Uncle Derek (who refers to me as his white niece)tells me that I'm *almost* part of the family. Almost. 
I love how her aunt drives up from Atlanta with gallons of a special brand of ice cream you can only get in Georgia. They bring so much it barely fits in the freezer. 
I revel in all of the visitors--her extended family is huge and everyone shows up with hugs, food, and laughter. 

It wasn't always like this. For years I refused to celebrate the holiday due to its associations with consumerism. I hated the crowds. I was saddened by the excessive spending and the sheer wastefulness of it all. 
I also didn't like the Jesus aspect of it. I hated all of the pins and shirts that touted Jesus as the reason for the season, when for the majority people it really isn't. 

A few years ago, I realized something important. The holiday season isn't about shopping and buying and excessive consumption. 
It also isn't about Jesus, at least bit for me. 

It's about family and friends and laughing together and reminding them of how much you care. That, to me, is the real reason for the season. 


Sunday, November 17, 2013

Sunday Morning

Those who have known me for a short time would be surprised that my Sunday morning ritual used to involve teaching Sunday school and playing in the church handbell choir. 
I loved teaching Sunday school. I taught the three year olds. We sang songs, spun in circles, drew pictures, and ran around on the playground. I was never into the 'message of Jesus' as the other teachers called it, but I did want to teach the children important things. I wanted them to know that they were loved, that someone cared for them, and that the world was a friendly and wonderful place.
I was in the handbell choir simply because nobody else wanted to be. In my small Lutheran school, you HAD to either play a sport, be a cheerleader, or volunteer at the church. I tried basketball and hated it, and despite my mothers dreams, I loathed the thought of being a cheerleader. That left only one option: volunteering. 
I spent a few weeks organizing the church library, but the secretary got mad at me because I asked why all of the books for women involved obeying men to make them happy. The next time I went to volunteer, the secretary said she didn't need help. 
I had a few weeks of mailing out offering packets, but it was a short lived gig. 
I asked if I could volunteer to mow the church lawn but that was met with a resounding NO. Apparently only boys could volunteer to mow. 
Given the option of visiting the elderly or playing handbells, I chose the handbells. Every Sunday I would dutifully pick up my bell and chime it in unison along with an assorted group of older women who had joined the handbell choir out of sheer boredom. 
After I got done with my Sunday school kids and chimed my bell intermittently throughout the church service, my dad would take off his church usher's jacket and drive me home, stopping to get a forbidden doughnut from the local bakery. My mom would get mad if she knew he was letting me have a doughnut, so we would eat them in the bakery, sitting on tiny chairs while he chatted with the old men who came there to drink coffee after church. 

At fifteen, I abruptly stopped going to church. I told my parents I had never really believed in Jesus and my mom got hysterical, telling me," It doesn't matter if you believe, Kerrie. You go to church because you don't want people to talk bad about you." Every Sunday she would scream and yell and try to cajole me into going long enough for people to see me there, and every Sunday I refused.
My peaceful Sunday mornings had turned into a living hell. 

These days my Sundays are different. I roll out of bed late, throw on some comfortable clothes, and head to the coffee shop where my partner works. 
She brings me a steaming Americano and a raspberry white chocolate muffin, and I settle into the big leather chair by the front window with the newspaper. 
The Sunday morning regulars come by. 
 Ms. Ella, who is 75 and has her daughter drop her off, sits and talks to me. We swap recipes and she makes her shopping list. She LOVES my partner and doesn't care that we are atheist lesbians. She and my partner talk on the phone weekly and my partner takes her grocery shopping twice a month, patiently helping her carry everything in and put it away. 
The Asian family that comes by every week drops by to pick up some coffee, their kids giggling as we make silly faces at each other. 
There are a lot of kids that come by the shop. I smile and wave at them and occasionally we giggle together. I want them to know that the world is a friendly and welcoming place, and that they are loved. 
Stevie Wonder plays on the CD player and I sing along. 
Ray-Ray comes by and sits at the table right outside the window, chain smoking and gulping coffee. Before he leaves, he points at my partner and jokingly tells me,"Watch out for that one. You gotta keep her in line."

On the way home, I stop at Aldis and get our groceries for the week. I buy what I want and what we can afford, and if I want doughnuts I get doughnuts. 

Coffee

I didn't taste the glory that is coffee until I was twenty two years old. 
I have no idea why I waited so damn long. 
I was never the kind of person who needed caffeine to get going; if anything, I needed substances to calm me down. 

I didn't like the sound of coffee. In my mind, it was something old people drank. It made your breath stink and your teeth brown, two things I didn't want to experience. My mom drank a pot of coffee daily. I didn't want to be addicted to something like that. 
But. I had a friend Dave who ALWAYS had energy. He taught college full time in addition to being a balledero and working on a novel. He was the kind of person who seemed to wake up perky. 
One day I asked him how he was so productive. He replied simply, "Coffee". 

I mulled over it for a few weeks, then decided to take the plunge. Somehow I knew once I tried it there would be no going back. 
I went over to his house one afternoon, mug in hand, and told him I was ready. He took his time, adding sugar carefully and making sure it was just right. 
I closed my eyes, put the mug up to my face, and took a sip. I instantly felt it: warmth, comfort, peace. 

When I introduced coffee to my friend Jeremy three weeks later he shouted in joy, "I feel so attractive and sexy when I'm drinking this stuff!"

The next day we ordered an espresso machine off eBay and went halves on an inexpensive coffee pot from Walmart. 

I've had months where I drank six cups a day. I've had weeks where I only wanted a few sips each morning. I had an early morning job that involved double fisting iced coffee so that I wouldn't yell at the clients. I've quit for months at a time, only for friends to bring me a cup and say, "Please start drinking coffee again. You're so much more pleasant with it."

It's a part of my life in a way that I never expected. I'll go weeks at a time without it, but when that craving hits I HAVE to have it. It calms me, makes me feel whole. That first warm sip lets me know all is right with the world. 
I know where every coffee shop in town is, and I can produce packets of instant coffee at a moments notice in an emergency. My coworkers tease me because I can't produce that first 'Good Morning' until I've had at least half a cup. 

I'll never be able to quit the coffee completely, and I never want to. 


Taurus

I both love and hate being a Taurus. 
I love the fact that I value deep friendship, that I'm loyal, earthy, sensual, and pragmatic. I love the sense of being grounded that I get when I'm around other Tauruses. 
But. 
I hate how stubborn I am. 
When I'm doing something difficult and I refuse to give up, I appreciate the innate stubbornness many Tauruses have. I revel in my dogged determination. 
But when I refuse to admit I'm wrong, or find it impossible to change my ways, I hate the stubbornness of my nature. 
Don't get me wrong; I've tried to change this part of myself. I've tried wearing a rubber band around my wrist so I can snap myself back into agreeableness when I'm being obstinate. 
I've written letters to myself. I've put notes in my wallet and purse reminding myself that it's okay to give in, that my life will not end if I admit to my mistakes. I've gone to counseling. I've read dozens of books. 
But still, I find myself standing in my own way. Over and over and over. 
When my boss mentions I made a mistake, I will argue with her for hours despite knowing that I am in the wrong. 
When my partner asks me to do something I don't want to do, I will flat out refuse to do it and make up dozens of reasons why I can't. 
When someone comes up with a quicker, better way if doing something, I will determinedly stick to the old, slow way if that's the way I like. 
I know I'm in the wrong. I know I should just give in. I know I'm only harming myself. 
But still, I persist. 
I often think that I'm going to be one if those old people who refuses to die. They'll turn off the machines and leave the room, and I'll still be lying there struggling to breathe. Stubborn to the very end. 

Friday, November 15, 2013

Comfort

The smell emanating from the crockpot after a long day at work. 
The sigh of happiness from a kitty cat as it settles into my lap. 
The creak of my favorite chair as I settle into it. 
Warm clothes straight from the dryer. 
That first sip of hot coffee on a cold morning. 
The sound of my niece laughing. 
The smell of fresh hay on a sunny summer afternoon. 
Our warm soft bed and a thick comforter. 

Comfort. 

My favorite person

My favorite person is sitting across the table, studying her laptop intently. Occasionally she grabs her notebook and quickly scribbles something into it, then takes a sip of coffee and smiles. 
This is how we spend our time together now. When she made the decision to go back to school, I was aware that our lives would change. I didn't realize how drastically different things would be. 
Gone are our leisurely Sunday mornings, where she would make me breakfast in bed and we would sit and talk for hours over coffee. Now our Sundays involve her jumping out of bed and throwing on clothes so that she can get to her second job. After that, I cook and clean while she works on her exit papers and scours the internet looking for job openings. 
She used to make over 60K; now her yearly income is significantly less. I don't make much working at a nonprofit so we live paycheck to precarious paycheck. It strains our tiny budget and has changed a lot of our habits. No more meals out when we are too tired to cook, no more thrift store shopping excursions. Every penny is accounted for and stretched until it can't be stretched any more. 
Our evenings no longer involve going to the movies, trying out new coffee places, or going to a concert. Most of our evenings now are spent with her reading and grading papers while I read and cook dinner. 
On the rare occasion we do go somewhere, it is to the coffee shop where she works part time, so that we can have free sandwiches and coffee, thanks to her generous boss. I never thought I'd tire of the menu there; now I occasionally feel nauseous when I look at their pastry case. 

Sometimes she feels guilty. She knows her research and work take her away and cause her to be grouchy, and she knows she isn't the loving partner she was before she started school. 

Last night she told me, "I know you don't love me the way you used to. I know my crankiness and stress have driven you away". 

I hugged her, smiled and her, and reassured her, "Boo Bear, you're still my favorite person". 

Thursday, November 14, 2013

First Love

"Are you a commuter student, or are you just here for the free pizza?"
I turned and looked at the skinny brown boy behind me and smiled. I asked, "What do you think?. He answered, "Probably not. I'm not either but I couldn't handle the dorm food tonight." 
Thus began my friendship with my first love. He lived on the seventh floor; I lived on the ninth. We clicked immediately and spent every waking hour together that first year. We had our own language and habits. On Tuesdays, he would wear my favorite dress all day while I wore a suit around campus. He taught me about feminism and disco and I taught him about small towns and country music. We drank together for the first time. We laughed for hours on end.  We were just friends but everyone assumed we were more. 
That summer, I moved into an apartment with three roommates and he went home. And came back with his high school girlfriend. They got a small apartment together and I rarely saw him. She never gave him my messages and he told me that she didn't like him having females as friends, despite the fact that I had already come out and was crazy about my first girlfriend. 
A year later, he dropped by my apartment for a surprise visit. He sat down on my bed and told me that he would be gone for a few weeks because he was taking Michelle home. I asked how long she was going to be gone, and with tears in his eyes, he explained that she was going to be gone for good. They had broken up. I moved over to comfort him and he hugged me, then told me that he had initiated the breakup. Then he looked in my eyes and said, " I broke up with her because I knew it wouldn't work. I wanted to be with you and she figured it out long before I did. Kerrie, I know you like women and I know that I can't give you everything. I know I can't be your everything....but I need to be your something". 
Two weeks later he returned without her. In that time, I broke things off with my girlfriend. 
It was a beautiful relationship. He was girly and I was butch, and we fit together perfectly. His adoration allowed me to fully express my personality and become a stronger woman.
We were together a little under a year before we both had to admit that it wouldn't work. I was in love with him but I couldn't stop myself from looking at other women. He wanted to be enough for me and I wanted to be content with him. But it wasn't possible. 
 After hours upon hours of talking, we decided to separate. We also decided it would be too painful to be friends. Neither of us could handle the thought if seeing the other one with someone else.
It has been sixteen years since we made that decision.
It has been fifteen years since we last saw one another. 
 I remember everything about him: his middle name, his favorite foods, the way he smelled, his birthday, everything he was allergic to, the way he looked in the morning...everything. I think about him frequently, and wonder if he still thinks of me.
 I love my partner and wouldn't trade her for anything....but he will always be my first love. 

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Safety

When I was younger, I was careless with myself. I drank profusely. I did drugs without knowing what they were. I slept around with anyone and everyone. 
Looking back, it's a miracle that worse things didn't happen to me. 
Now at the ripe old age of thirty five, I spend my days lecturing to teenagers and young adults about safety, pleading with them to be safe. I give them condoms. I talk to them about drugs. I discuss alcohol and it's long term effects in the body. And I talk about smoking and how bad it is until I'm blue in the face(while knowing full well that as soon as I get off work I'm going to sit in my car and light one up). 
I sometimes wonder if I'm making a difference. Are they really absorbing what I say, or are they just nodding so they can get out of the room? I know I did at that age. 
As they filter out the door, I hold my big bowl of condoms and tell them to take as many as they want. "Safety first", I tell them as they dutifully take a handful. 

Some days I have to laugh at myself. Despite my lack of safety, I'm still here. 

Monday, November 11, 2013

Stealing

When I was six, I inadvertently stole a candy bar. That candy bar theft haunted me until I was nine. 
I was at the local hardware store with my dad, looking at saws. My dad(who was the 'fun' parent) put two quarters in my hand and whispered in my ear, "Daughter, go pick yourself out a candy bar. Here's fifty cents to pay for it. Don't tell your mother". 
I ran up to the counter and picked out a snickers bar. I had never had a candy bar before and I was super excited about it. I had seen my friends eat them and knew it was supposed to be the best candy bar out there.
As I approached the counter, I froze. The man behind the counter looked so tall and scary. I had never been allowed to buy something by myself and I didn't know what to do. As he turned to speak to someone, I slipped the money in my pocket. I ran back to where my dad was and opened the candy bar and took a bite. It was so good! 
As we left, I realized that I had forgotten to tell my dad that I didn't pay for the candy bar. The man behind the counter didn't seem to notice. 
When we got into the station wagon, I pretended to be looking for something and slipped the two quarters underneath the carpet in the backseat.
As we drove home, I tried to figure out a way to dispose of the two quarters without being found out. We weren't allowed to be in the garage unless we were in the car, and I knew I couldn't move them when my parents were in the car. I was terrified they would find the quarters and know they were supposed to be meant for that candy bar. 
For the next three years, I was nervous every time we rode in that car. 
When my mom put groceries in the backseat every week, I almost made myself sick worrying that she would find the quarters. When we went to Grandma's, I was scared one of my cousins would peek in the car, spot the money, and alert my parents. 
I wasn't allowed to have money or to know anything about it(yes, I was VERY sheltered) so it didn't occur to me that my parents would just assume they had found a misplaced quarter if they found one of them. I was convinced they would know it was me who hid the quarters in the car. 
A few weeks after I turned nine, my mom came home driving a different car. A few days after that, an older couple came and looked at it and took it for a test drive. They handed my dad a handful of bills and he gave them the keys. 
As they drove away, I breathed a silent sigh of relief. At last I was free of those two quarters, and nobody would ever find out I was a thief. 

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Cleaning house

I don't remember much about my life between the ages of twenty three and twenty five. 
What I do have, however, are bits and pieces of memories. 
Rolling over in the morning to reach for my pipe. Drinking in the shower to save time. Giving blowjobs to an older guy in my apartment building because he always gave me a quarter sack of weed afterwards. Sneaking shots of vodka at work. Crawling up the stairs to my apartment. Waking up and wondering what I had done the night before. People's faces, but never their names. This game my friends and I played where we would all try to walk down the sidewalk, and the one who made it furthest without falling always drive us to the next bar. Taking handfuls of pills and not knowing what they were. Parties every night, in apartments and houses I didn't know and wouldn't be able to recognize while sober. 

What I also don't remember is my living environment. I had my own tiny apartment, and a landlord(who is the kindest man alive) who would let me go months at a time without paying rent because he didn't want me out on the streets. 
I don't remember much about the apartment but I do have dozens of pictures of the chaos. 
Cups half full of murky liquids on every available surface. My 'fuck pile' where I kept the clothes, lighters, and other assorted crap my numerous one night stands had left behind. Heaping full ashtrays, most of the cigarettes with marks of my favorite maroon lipstick. Pipes everywhere. Dozens of empty takeout boxes from my job. Empty bottles of cheap wine lining the walls. Sticks of incense, burned long ago. Ends of blunts, piled high on my bed stand so that I could empty them into my pipe late at night. 
I was so fucked up so much of the time I didn't realize how bad it was. 

One night, stumbling home after four(or five, I can't remember) of my male coworkers had gotten me really drunk, held me down, and sexually assaulted me, I decided that I was done and that I needed a change. It wasn't the first time something like that had happened, but I knew that night that it would be my last. 

The next day, I called in sick to work. Then I drive to the Dollar General and bought two 20-packs of heavy duty garbage bags. 
I went home, locked the door behind me, and started cleaning house. 
I cleaned for ten hours solid, and that ten hours was the longest amount of time I had been sober in almost two years. 

That night, when my friends called to see why I wasn't at the bar, I told them I couldn't go out because I needed to clean my apartment. 
I spent the next three months cleaning that apartment and figuring out my life. By the time I was done, I had also cleaned dozens of numbers out of my black book, and I never talked to most of those people again. 

Bleeding

For almost two years, I bled every day. Not consistently, but randomly and heavily. 
Fibroids were the cause. One large fibroid, to be exact, along with two smaller ones and two ovarian cysts. A short lived pregnancy had altered the hormones in my body enough to cause the fibroids and cysts to start growing. 
I bled in the morning. I bled at night. I would get in the car to go home from work and the seat would be soaked in blood by the time I made my ten minute commute. I bled when my partner and I tried to have sex.  I would go an entire day without bleeding, then bend over or stretch and feel blood start gushing out. 
I stopped being able to use my Moon Cup. Or tampons, for that matter. The fibroid was so huge it would simply push them back out. 
After eighteen months of this, I got an infection. Not a regular UTI or bladder infection---it was spread throughout my body. My fibroid was causing my uterus to become swollen and infected. 
That's when I knew it was time for action. 
After speaking with several doctors, it was decided I'd get a uterine ablation. The doctors warned me that it probably wouldn't stop my monthly bleeding but at least it would make it impossible for the fibroid to grow back. The downside? I'd never be able to have children. My only other option was a full hysterectomy. I meditated on it at length and realized that I really didn't have any other options. 
In the weeks following the ablation, my body breathed a sigh of relief. My periods were shorter, lighter, and regular. The incessant cramping was gone, as was the random heavy bleeding that I'd been living with for so long. 

I don't regret doing it; I really had no other option. 

But every time I see a woman screaming at her children and telling them they are unwanted, and every time I hear a patient with six kids complaining about how she didn't want them in the first place, I feel a pang of sadness. I will never be a mother. I'll never know what it feels like to look into a child's eyes and bond with them. I'll never be able to nurture and raise a child the way I want to. People tell me(almost daily) that my partner and I should have kids, that we would be excellent and loving parents. They don't realize that it isn't possible for us. 
I'll never be a parent, and I'm reminded of it every month when I bleed. 

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

My Favorite Place--Four haikus

A Womyn laughing
So hard she can barely breathe
That is Fest to me.

A Womyn smiling
So wide her face almost hurts
That is Fest to me.

A Womyn loving
So fierce, strong, and powerful
That is Fest to me.

A Womyn growing
Learning to cherish herself
That is Fest to me. 

Monday, November 4, 2013

Food

My mother has nagged me about my weight since I was nine years old. Until then I was underweight and scrawny, and endured the constant refrain of 'Eat more, you're too skinny' from my aunts and grandmother. But then my body started changing, and so did my relationship with food. 
At ten, she took me to my first TOPS(taking off pounds sensibly) meeting. I was the only kid there, and endured an hour every Monday and Thursday night of hearing her tell her friends how chubby and unattractive I was. Every night as I ate dinner, she would scrutinize and comment on everything I ate. 
At twelve, she tried taking me to Weight Watchers. I dutifully charted my food and counted my points but stayed the same size. At home I was no longer allowed to eat cookies or cake; the only treat I was allowed was a chalky chocolate flavored diet drink called Alba77. I hated it and would throw it down the toilet when she wasn't looking. She told me frequently that if only I was as thin as my cousin B(who was using various drugs) then I would be the pretty, popular daughter she had always dreamed of having. 
At fourteen, I went to theatre camp and learned how to stick my finger down my throat. Despite only being a size fourteen, I quickly started purging. I would go three or four days without eating, then binge and purge. Some days I would allow myself a half apple for the day; I would slice it thin and take small bite when I felt faint. 
I quickly shrank down even further; my ribs stuck out and my hipbones jutted out prominently. For the first time in my life, my mother was nice to me. She bought me clothes. She told me I was pretty. She didn't seem to notice that my periods had stopped or that my bones stuck out. I was thin, and that was the most important thing. 
At sixteen, my drama coach brought me breakfast on a Monday morning. I thanked her and told her I'd eat it later. She told me,"No, I'd like to see you eat it." I ate a few bites, thinking I would go into the bathroom and purge. But she followed me into the bathroom.
 Then she informed me that she knew what I had been doing, and that she had called my parents about it. She said that my mother had gotten angry and told her that it was okay as long as I was thin. My teacher told me ," She may not be willing to do anything about it, but I will". 
After that things changed. My friends from the drama club followed me everywhere. They watched me eat and one of them seemed to always follow me into the bathroom afterwards. They sat with me at breakfast and lunch, and the guys in the group brought me a snack every day after school.  
I've never been able to figure out if she asked them to do these things, or if they talked about it among themselves and decided to do it. 
I haven't starved myself or purged in many years. It took a long time for me to be able to eat normally and some days I still struggle with the urge to stop eating. When I get a stomach virus and throw up, it takes weeks to be able to convince myself to eat normally again. 
My mother still wistfully talks about when I was thin at family functions and has told me more than once that I should 'do that diet' I did in high school. 
Food is no longer a punishment for me. It is sensual, delicious, and beautiful. It makes me feel good and nourished and whole. And every day I am thankful for my drama coach who, with a breakfast of runny powdered eggs and some words of encouragement, kept me from starving myself to death. 

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Childhood Memory, not in poetic form.

I floated above the entrance to the hospital and watched my dad drag me through the hospital doors and down the hall, crying and screaming for help. I could see my body shaking as the nurses rushed out to grab me and lift me into a bed. I watched them frantically push needles in my arms and start an IV. Then I woke up on the bed, saw my dad sobbing in the corner of the room, and knew I had almost died. 
That was my first seizure. Over the next few years I had them regularly. My dad started sleeping on the floor outside of my bedroom so that he could hear me gasping for air when a seizure started. He would run into the room, push me on my side, and hold me until the shaking stopped. Sometimes they didn't, and I'd wake up in the back of the ambulance on the way to the hospital. 
The doctors tried dozens of different pill combinations, sometimes mixing 15-20 different medications at once in at effort to get the seizures to stop. After numerous scans and tests it was determined that I only had them in the first stage of sleep and that it was a hereditary condition passed down from my grandmother, but nothing the doctors tried made them stop. 
At eighteen I was at a friends house and her brother was smoking a type of cigarette I had never seen before. Curious, I asked if I could try one. It was the first time I had ever seen or tried weed. 
I never had another seizure again. 

Grace

I have never been a woman known for her grace and beauty. 
My walk resembles that of a drunken sailor, or so I've been told. I wore braces on my legs until I was five and I never developed the graceful walk of most women. 
My voice can be coarse and shrill and grating. I can't count the number of times I've been told to tone it down. 
My laugh is loud and often startles people when they first hear it. 
My teeth are crooked and chipped from years of bulimia and lack of dental care. 
My hands are short, stubby, and rough. I try to paint my nails but they just end up chipped and broken. 

But. My crazy walk feels peaceful as I slowly amble through the woods with my niece, stopping every few seconds to help her pick up a rock she's found or delight in some leaves she thinks are beautiful. I walk at her pace, not rushing her as most other adults do. 
My loud, grating voice is low and soothing as I comfort a crying woman who has just found out bad news. It's supportive and gentle as I help her make hard decisions and find the courage to take care of herself. 
My loud laugh delights my partner and friends, who stop what they are doing and laugh along with me for the sheer joy of being alive. 
My teeth may not be pretty, but my smile is warm and reassuring. My smile makes people feel safe, and loved, and welcome. 
My stubby hands can do anything. Build a table, change the oil in my car, then switch to more domestic duties as I cook delicious and filling meals for my family and coworkers, and keep our home clean.

I may not have grace, but I've got something better. 

Friday, November 1, 2013

Travel

I spent five years of my life in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, only leaving the tiny town to visit my parents three times. 
Before that, though...I traveled everywhere. I took the train on 3 AM trips to Chicago, drove to protests in Washington D. C. and Alabama, and had spontaneous road trips to visit friends around the country just because I could. 
All of that changed when I started dating C. She liked our small town and felt no need to leave. When we left our apartment, even to go to the grocery store she got visibly nervous, preferring to spend all of her free time smoking weed with friends. 
Several times I would plan small getaways to nearby towns, renting a room at a bed and breakfast and making plans to meet up with friends. I never got to go. She always talked me out of it at the last minute. 
I visited my parents a few times those years but she always refused to go with me. After a while, I stopped going too, and resigned myself to spending the rest of my life in that town. 

The day I finally took control of my life and left her I drove for hours, going further than I had in years. I haven't been back there since.