Somewhere Only We Know

I walked across an empty land

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand I felt the earth beneath my feet

Sat by the river, and it made me complete

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting tired, and I need someone to rely on

I came across a fallen tree

I felt the branches of it looking at me

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go

Somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know.

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need someone to rely on So tell me when you’re gonna let me in

I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go?

Somewhere only we know

Somewhere only we know

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Watch Your Fucking Language and 5 Minutes to Change the Next 50 Years of Your Life

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When we were little girls we were told to be ladylike. Don’t talk too loud. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Let the boy come to you. When we were grown, we were told to find a man to take care of you. Be a delicate flower. Be thin. Be anything but yourself. Don’t eat on a date. Don’t drink too much. Blend in. Be the wallflower. Be demure. Be, be, be, but don’t be you.

I was never the quiet girl. I was never the one to follow the crowd. I was the unicorn. The girl with the big boobs that weighed 150 lbs. and was thought of as fat. The one that decided rebellion was a good thing. I laughed too loud. I swore a lot. I drank, smoked cigarettes and weed, but I was the good girl too. And did I LOVE boys! I wore clothes to reflect my mood for the day. I didn’t belong to any group or clique. Just flitted from clique to clique like a butterfly lighting on the blooms in a garden. I belonged everywhere and nowhere, and that was okay.

As I get older, the butterfly that flitted from group to group is tired and looking for a home. I still belong everywhere and nowhere. I think part of it is because I was adopted and might still be feeling lost from that. It’s not healthy to be feeling abandoned at this age. I know that this thought is of my own making, and I have to be the one that steps away from that sorry and into the light.

So today I say fuck the fuckers, and use my loud voice. I’m the girl with the big boobs. I’m the girl that is not the typical beauty. I’m not a delicate flower, nor do I want to be. I want to be the girl that rages against the dying of the light. It’s time for me to be, be, be and to the real me. I am a goddess rising, a butterfly and a unicorn. I’m not just a manic pixie dream girl, hell bent on being the sidekick.

I’m the dreamer and the dream, in charge of my own destiny. So what if I say fuck, a lot!?

Kiss Your Own Fingertips

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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.

Friday Fictioneers-Crickets and the Chill of Fall

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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.

The Fourth Day is the Charm… Maybe

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.

And so it Begins… Again

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…

To Remember touch More than Thought

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“I remember that feeling of skin. It’s strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.”-Lucy Christopher

My pulse quickened as Matt enclosed his left hand around my right. The intimacy of his actions brought a blush to my cheeks. Confused, I wanted to pull away but I craved the contact. Instead of retreating, I allowed his hand to engulf mine. My mouth went dry, as his thumb repeatedly caressed the palm of my hand.

I yielded to his touch, my heart slowed its thready beat, and I allowed myself to enjoy the closeness of my dear friend. He asked for nothing but my hand. He told me he loved me and how glad he was I came into his life. We grew silent, as his thumb continued to make lazy circles on my palm.

His was the first intimate touch I’d felt since I’d become sober. It wasn’t a sexual touch. I wasn’t sure how to label it, and honestly, I didn’t care to. In that five minutes, I felt more protected and loved than I had in a long time.

With our hands clasped, my friend silently asked nothing of me, but to love every broken, raw and damaged part of him. And in return, I asked him to do the same for me.

The Day the Music Came Alive

I am 32 Flavors and then some
I’m nobody, but I am someone

The last year of my addiction to alcohol had killed my love of music. Every time I listened to any song I would feel it so deeply that I would be left sobbing. If I couldn’t listen to music, I damn sure couldn’t write either. So in the last six months I fed my need for words by listening to NPR and the great Dave and Chuck the Freak morning show on 101.1 The WRIF in Detroit.

During detox and rehab we weren’t allowed to have our phones, so I was starved for information, morning radio shows, and finally, music. The few songs I did get to hear during that time made me cry, but there was no longer any deep seeded pain connected to it. The pain I felt was the itch and burn of healing to my tattered and war torn soul.

On the day I walked out of the Brighton Center of Recovery, the sun of early fall was shining. It lit my hair and my spirit on fire and I knew I was on the path to rebirth. I threw my suitcase in the backseat, and placed my ID and insurance card back into my wallet. I slid the keys into the ignition, turned the engine over, and rolled the windows down. As I drove out of the parking lot, I turned the radio up to 11, the wind caught my hair and I sang the words to whatever song that was playing on the radio.

I  finally felt at home in the music, no matter if it was upbeat or a ballad. The words helpd incredible power! Not to hurt me, but to help me heal. Everyday I get closer to fine with the help of my IOP group, my AA community, my other Brighton alums, my friends and family and my music. Oh my fucking God, I am so incredibly blessed!

May you find peace and serenity today, and may you find joy in the little things in life.