Thank you to Elephant Journal for this inspiring verse.
Thank you to Elephant Journal for this inspiring verse.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love myself.
To look at myself in the mirror and see beauty instead of flaws.
I’ve forgotten how to love myself.
To touch my flabby and cellulite covered skin and not hate it.
To rub my own feet with thick lotion and not wish that the heels were softer.
To hold my hips and wish I could remove all of the fat inside of them.
To trace my wrinkled hands across my ample breasts and hope that someday a man will behold their beauty again.
To gaze at my face in the mirror and not see wrinkles, but amaze at the brightness of my blue eyes and the perfect symmetry of my lips.
I’ve forgotten how to love myself.
To find that little girl that resides inside and tell her that she’s going to be okay.
That she is loved.
That she is free.
That she is important.
I’ve forgotten how to love myself, but I do hope in time I’ll be able to again.
Mud covered jeans
Wind whipped hair
Paws wet from puddles
Make me smile
Make me brave
It’s where I thought we’d sit at night, to hear the crickets till they were silenced by the chill of fall. We’d sit together fireside, while your fingertip traced lazy circles in my palm.
I’m not an outdoorsy girl, but the fire sounded nice, while seated on a bench fashioned from a felled oak in the backyard. All that’s left of us now are the stump and a few fleeting memories of the plans we had.
With my coat buttoned against the cold, I head out to meet the handyman that will finish the work that your leaving left behind.
Genre: Romance, I think
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. The stories don’t come too often for me, but when they do they come quickly and I just have to grab them! Please feel free to critique my work as I’m always open to suggestions for writing better stories.
I knew I was depressed the day food no longer held any allure.
He told me that he’d met someone and of course I was jealous, but what struck me was when he said that she didn’t eat much, like him. That they both never ate much so he asked her to have dinner at his place.
Of course my mouth got the best of me, and I spouted off, ‘well fuck, she must be skinny, how lucky for you!’
He responded, ‘it doesn’t fucking matter if she’s young or old, skinny or fat, I just wanted to have dinner with a friend.’
I knew she was more than a friend. That it was a date, and he had moved on.
I lost my appetite and became an empty vessel. I felt nothing, except the iciness of anxiety as it crept into my heart and made a home where my sparkle used to be. Something inside of me broke and I shut down. I hadn’t felt like this in ages, but I knew what it was.
My old friend depression had returned, and it had put its cold, dead hand in mine.
I finally admitted it to myself, and then my daughter this weekend.
‘Mom, I don’t think your anti-depressant is working.’
‘Honey, I know it isn’t, but I don’t know what to do.’
I sobbed while we talked, and I think I used about 25 tissues in about ten minutes. Meg kept reassuring me that I was going to be okay, but all I could say was I knew that I would be without a partner for the rest of my life.
The whole thing with K had devastated me. Here was this man that I was sure I loved already moving on.
Sure, he has his demons, but so do I.
There’s addiction, of food and alcohol that continually sing their siren song into my ear. There’s the nagging feeling that I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. That I’ll leave no mark. That I’ll have been brave enough to save myself from insanity, to only die alone in some hospital bed while machines whir and measure my heartbeat till I’m no more.
The pit of depression is a deep one and I’m at the bottom of it.
To begin clawing my way out, I sent a text to my therapist. I’ve contacted my closest friends and I’ve told my sponsor the work I need to do. I think I need to make a call to my addiction psychiatrist, because I think I need a stronger medication to battle this. Meditation is great and prayer even better, but I know that I need it like a diabetic needs insulin.
I want out of this abyss, and I want to be loved. I want to love myself first, but that may never happen. There are women like me that feel love for those around them, but will never feel their worth until they are loved by someone else.
Tomorrow, I will get up early, and prepare for work. I’ll go through the motions of life and I will take time for self care and meditation. I’ll force myself to take care of myself, until it is no longer a battle, and I can do it with ease. And even if I’m never held in the arms of man again, I will find something in this life worth living for.
Yesterday started with a lemon meringue protein bar, hard tack, and assorted pieces of melon. You have no idea how good it felt to chew that dry cracker, wash it down with hot coffee and chase it with sweet and cold melon. I ate a hard boiled egg too, but that’s not so exciting as that will be part of my daily diet for at least the next 26 weeks.
I made ground turkey with some Mrs. Dash multi blend sans salt and weighed out exactly 5.5 oz. for lunch. I have this groovy air fryer and roasted cauliflower, broccoli, and shredded carrots. I threw a little olive oil on them and air fried those bitches. They melted in my mouth when I ate them for lunch. I still felt queasy and shaky, but as the day progressed, I found I wasn’t craving sugar and some of my energy was returning.
At home last night, I air fried three chicken breasts while I made dinner for myself and quickly gulped my meal down before heading out to an AA meeting. I was going to see the ladies from my home group for the first time in two months and though I was excited to see them all, I was also quite nervous.
My AA sponsor checked in with me to make sure I’d be there and I promised her I would. I had placed my Big Book from the Brighton Center for Recovery in my purse, chatted with my daughter for two minutes about her day, then headed out the door into the cold winter night. I hadn’t cleaned the steps from the last snowfall so I did my best to tread carefully.
A half hour later I was sitting in the church parking lot, rocking out to old school beats on 105.1. My anxiety was still there but I felt pretty good so I walked in and I’ll be damned if the meeting hadn’t already started. My sponsor pointed to a chair next to her and she hugged me after I sat down. One of my other sober sisters gave me a hug and whispered Happy New Year in my ear. I tell you, I almost cried.
We rolled through the readings of the meeting, we said our memorized parts with ease and then we began the Big Book study. I was the first to read, but before I did anything, I said, my name is Renee, and I’m an alcoholic. My sister’s responses to me were, hello Renee. I read my part and then said, pass. My sponsor rubbed my back and said, I love you girl, then we turned our attention back to our individual books.
I absorbed every word or Bill W.’s story as if it were mine. I shook my head when it echoed my story, and I shook my head when my sisters told their stories. I shared my feelings of having missed my home group meetings for the last two months. I shared the tumultuous health issues that landed me in the hospital, the now ex-boyfriend, the fear of losing my job, the buying of a house and the subsequent move. The shittiness I always feel at the holidays, and finally the saving grace of the job and the boss I love.
I left the meeting last night feeling spiritually full, and somewhat hopeful. My stomach was full too, and I was grateful to be on a healthy eating plan that I know is going to make me feel better.
That is until I woke up at 3:30 this morning and knew that the cleanse I had been on was finally working. God always seems to say ha in the middle of the night doesn’t He?
Today is a new day and though I’m tired and shaky, I’ll eat my healthy food, and continue on this path, knowing that I’m finally heading in the right direction.
As you can see, I changed the name of my fearless little blog to Renee Writes Here. With the change to the New Year, I decided it was time to start over again. It seems that my whole life is a work in progress, and I continue to struggle with the good and bad of it. I look at the last five years of my life and wonder how the hell I got here.
I’m almost 50. I had a boyfriend for about five minutes till he became a disaster and tried to take me down with him. I bought a house with my daughter and live with her and my toddler grandson. I’m morbidly obese and feel like shit most of the time. I went to rehab for alcohol addiction, relapsed and then went back into recovery, all in the span of 16 months. I shut out the world, only to become so lonely I had to let it back in again. I watched a total fucking moronic asshole become president of my precious country. I gave up social media so that I could curtail the depression that seeped into my soul every time I glimpsed my timeline and saw the shininess of everyone else’s perfect life. Good God, I could go on and on!
A week ago, I decided I was done with the self-loathing and went back to the Medical Weight Loss Clinic that helped me lose 150 lbs more than five years ago. I’m on the second day of the Three Day Cleanse Diet and I feel like absolute hell. Have you ever gone on one of those low carbohydrate diets and you feel yourself crashing because of the lack of sugar? Well, that’s how I feel, but my stomach is also in turmoil, because all I’ve eaten for two days is two eggs, and two oranges a day, and all the red meat and raw green veggies I can stomach. The first day was great because dammit, I love beef. But now I’m tired as fuck and I’m cranky as hell, and I swear to GOD that my skin smells like meat.
I told Sheri in a text this morning that I think I need to journal how I’m feeling on the second, 25th, 100th, hell, even 300th day of this diet to remind myself why I don’t ever want to feel this way I again. I’m sure I’ll write about other things while trying to deal with this process yet again, but I can’t give up. I’m tired of being tired, and I’m tired of feeling like crap.
A colleague of mine that is not a food addict said she dieted one time back when she was in college. She said she hated that food was always on her mind, and that she was constantly hungry. She vowed that she would never feel that way again, and has made very conscious decisions about food and dieting all of her adult life. I wanted to call her a bitch, and tell her to fuck off, but I didn’t. I meditated on what she told me and really digested it. I realized, she’s right! You can’t make a decision to change and not be mindful of it for the rest of your life. It’s like any other addiction, you have to keep working at fighting the demon that’s chasing you.
And so it begins… Again. In 2018, less than three months until I turn 50, I’ll begin this process of change again. I’ll write my words here. I’ll write about my anger here. I’ll write about my sadness here. And I’ll write about my triumphs here too.
I hope you’ll come back and read my words, even if the Sparkly Girl you knew is gone…
We traveled home late one night down Southbound US-23. I sat next to Mom in our mustard yellow Plymouth Duster, and did my best to try and sleep. The black sky was spitting snow at the headlights while the heat vents blew warm stale air onto my face and chest. It was warm enough in the car, but I used my long winter coat as a blanket. Sis was asleep in the backseat and I envied the ease in which she could sleep just about anywhere.
I could feel the thick, hard vinyl of the mustard yellow seat as I shifted my weight and tried to drift off. The seat was anything but comfortable, but I liked riding up front with Mom. The radio was playing low and the AM dial glowed in the dark. Mom listened to the late night news on WJR which I have to admit even at an early age, scared the heck out of me. Maybe it was the staccato rhythm of the announcers voice or the sound of the teletype and the occasional beeping that signaled the end of one segment and the beginning of another. It seemed that the news was always bad.
There was a murderer on the loose in another state that I was convinced was going to show up at our front door. There was disaster somewhere in the world and my mind would race with thoughts of could it happen here in my state, or the city I lived in. The stories of missing children, of wars in other lands, of leaders that would kill their own people. Even at the young age of eight, I felt that the world would never be safe for me. Maybe it was because my parents were divorced and my daddy wasn’t there to protect all of us, I don’t know.
Mom’s family was located on the west side of the state. When she married my father she pulled up stakes and moved away, but our homes were always pretty close to the highway. She loved my dad, but not in a traditionally romantic way. Dad wasn’t her Prince Charming, he was her best friend. He offered security and unconditional love and the escape from the abuse she had experienced her entire life. I don’t ever remember living with my dad, which is kind of sad.
Maybe the anxiety that I experienced at such an early age wouldn’t have been so devastating if Dad had been there to fight the monsters in the closet, or under the bed. Maybe he could have quelled my fears from the horrible news stories I heard on the radio and t.v., but maybe not.
After all these years of dealing with a backwards fight/flight response, I’ve come to realize that it’s pretty much how I’m wired. Therapy and a good anti-depressant/anxiety medication have made my life better, but there’s the little girl in me that still wishes for my dad. My parents’ divorce wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I’m sad it happened all the same.
Sometimes, I wish I could take the knowledge I have now, and go back to being that little girl trying to sleep on that crappy colored vinyl front seat, and tell myself not to fear life. To not fear the unknown sounds in the walls, and not fear the darkness of my bedroom, to not fear whether or not I will be liked or loved, and to not fear being alone. There are so many things in the world to fear, but there is so much more to be experienced and enjoyed.
In the heat of summer, we began cleaning my deceased great grandmother’s home. Heavy with pregnancy, I pulled the old shoes from the bottom of the armoire. I felt overwhelmed by the chore and my grief of losing her before Adam was born. Sweat slid down my swollen belly as I filled the first box of many. Old shoes were easy to throw out, but what about the the other antiques? The baby kicked while I worked. Then the nosebleed began. Blood poured down my shirt and the old shoes. Distressed, I pinched my nostrils, and ran outside for relief.
100 words exactly!
Genre: autobiographical, memory, hell I don’t know.
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. I’m happy as heck to be inspired to write again. I’m hoping that this priming of the pump will cause the words and stories to flow for me again. Dear Readers, please go to Rochelle’s site to read all of the entries.
Have a terrific day!
The young vet sat across from the crumbled building. The August heat soared, and concrete burned through his fatigues and t-shirt. In his right hand he held a cup for ‘donations’, and with his left he wiped his damp brow.
Concert goers walked past, paying him no mind. Their only mission to pregame before the big event. Except for one pretty woman, but not ‘pretty’ in the traditional sense. Her smile made him shiver and her blue eyes he could’ve drowned in.
She handed him a ‘fiver’, then to his surprise, sat down beside him.
Hi, she said, I’m Michaella.
This is my first entry in Friday Fictioneers in forever. I’m forcing myself to get back to writing after dealing with some major heartbreak. I’m tying to post at least one story a week, but if the words start flowing again, I’m hoping to post a few times a week.
Thank you Rochelle for hosting this wonderful prompt. I’m so glad to be back in it again. Please be assured I’m ready for all constructive criticism.
Hope you all have a wonderful day!
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