Wednesday, 31 August 2016

Diets.

Everyone she knows
[Or at least it seems that way]
Is on
a
diet.
 
It seems to be
all
they
talk
about.
 
Oh, are you on Atkins? I've gone Paleo. She's high carb. He's on the shakes. She's on the diet where you don't eat at all until you feel like you're about to pass out, then you eat a cube of cheese.
 
Diets.
Diets.
Diets.
 
When she hears it
Or sees it
She feels
like
she should be
on a diet
too.
 
She should.
She should.
She should.
 
So she starts
looking for
things
to
cut.
 
Her head says, Yourself.
 
She tries to ignore that.
Tries.
Fails.
But tries.
 
So then she wonders,
What's the difference
between them
and
me?
How come they
can diet
and I
can't?
 
She doesn't know how to diet.
She never has.
Never could.

She fails by breakfast.
Grapefruit is disgusting, by the way.
And she doesn't eat eggs.
She doesn't eat tuna.
Or chicken breasts.
Or fish.
Or anything that you eat on a diet at all.
 
Her dietician
[ha]
Says,
You don't eat enough carbs.
Which is ludicrous
because
all she eats
are
carbs.
 
Cue the thought, Is butter a carb?
No, brain.
No.
 
She eats bananas
carbs
Apples
carbs
Strawberries
carbs
Bread
carbs
Muesli
carbs
Cookies
carbs
Wraps
carbs
Vegetables
carbs
And endless endless endless
bowls
of
pump
kin
soup.
 
Carbs.
Carbs.
Carbs.
 
She is not on a diet
She does not limit her carbs
She does not live on broccoli and lettuce and pickles and diet coke
[She's a coke zero girl, after all]
But maybe
Maybe
Maybe
She should.

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

Mornings.

Mornings.

There are so many
silly
rules
inside
your
head.

It starts in the morning.
Open your eyes.
Open them.
Blink three times.
One.
Two.
Three.

Check your phone, but only some.
Only some.
Only some.

And not if it's before 8:30am.
Do not touch
your phone
before
eight
thirty
a
m.

Check your body for signs of disappearance.
HipBonesCollarBonesRibCageChestBones.

Make sure
they are all
there.

Get out of bed
slowly
butnottooslownottooslownottooslow
left foot
right foot
one
at a
time.

Shoes on.
Gown on.
Stumble stumble stumble to the back door and let the dogs outside.

They need to pee, you know.

Go into the bathroom.
Check
yourself.
Are you still there
Are you more
or less
than
you
were
yest
ter
day?

Look at the scale.
Look at it.
Look.
Look.
Look.

There are four, you know.
Judge.
Jury.
Executioner.
Purgatory.

Purgatory.
Purgatory.
Purgatory.

Rid your body of excess.
Blow your nose and clean your ears.
Wash your hands
But
Do Not
let
any
other
part
of you
touch
the
water.

Do not.
Do not.
Do not.

It might
soak
into
your skin
and
make
you
heavier.

Strip down to your underwear.
No bra
but
cover
your chest
because
it is
disgusting
And
you hate it.
Hate it.
Hate it.
Hate it.

Right arm
over
your left
and
never
the other
way
round.

Breathe out
a l l
the air
inside
your lungs
and tap
the centre
of
the first
scale.

HoldYourBreathDon'tHoldYourBreathHoldYourBreathDon'tHoldItDon'tHoldItDon'tHoldItBreathe.

Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.

Oxygen has a weight, you know.
It does.
It does.
It does.

Step onto the scale.
Watch
the number
fall.

Fall.
Fall.
Fall.

It has to fall
enough.
It has to.
It has to.

Check that the scale is Not Lying.
Judge.
Jury.
Executioner.
Purgatory.

Purgatory.
Purgatory.
Purgatory.

It better not be lying.
It better
be
less.

Put the number into your phone.
App number one
Two
Three
Four
and
Five.

Five apps. Just to be sure.

To be sure, to be sure.
Just like the Irish.

Clothes on.
Teeth brushed.
Hair not brushed because you'll go bald, but fixed with your fingers until it's okay.

It's okay.
It's okay.
It's okay.

Into the kitchen.
Open the curtains.
Check for evidence of rule-breaking-night-eating-weakness-weakness-weakness.

Turn on the kettle.
Make your bed.
Put
away
your
pyjamas.

Drink some water.
It's okay, now.
Drink.
Drink.
Drink.

Wash your hands a lot of times.
Then wash them more.
Just to be
safe.

Take a yoghurt from the fridge.
There should be 8 or 9 or 10 or 11 or 12.
Never more.
Never less.

Yoghurt should be eaten with a plastic teaspoon.
Never metal.
Never a tablespoon.
Never anything but white.
Never.
Never.
Never.

Weigh a banana or maybe some strawberries or an apple. Weigh out your muesli.

Bite your tongue and hold your breath until it's done or a stray grain may make its way into your mouth and then what will become of you?

Put the box away before it's too late.
Away.
Away.
Away.

The kettle has boiled.

Make your tea.
Green.
Two bags.
In a travel mug.
You're not going anywhere.
But
The travel mug
is
safe.

Safe.
Safe.
Safe.

YouAreNotSafeYouAreNotSafeYouAreNotYouAreNotNotNot.

Take your tea
and
yoghurt
and
fruit
and
muesli
and
put them
on
the coffee table
by
your
couch.

Then

Take a bottle of water
and
A bottle of sparking water
and
A can of coke zero
And
A bottle of flavour drops
to
the table
too.

Wash you hands and weigh yourself weigh yourself weigh yourself just to know your starting number for when you're clothed and wearing weights wearing weights wearing weights.

It's been over a year, now.
Ankle weights every day.
Two on each leg.
Always.
You want three but then they can't hide inside your shoes.

Back into the living room.

Sit.
Breathe.
Sit.

Take a picture of your food.
Because you have to
You have to
You have to

If you don't how will you know that you didn't actually eat everything everything everything you own?

Log the food and their calories into your app app app apps.

While you're there,
Check your pulse.
Sleeping heart rates above 39 will not be tolerated.

39 is the new black, didn't you know?
40 is an abomination.
Only 30 is safe.
Only.
Only.
Only.

Drink half the flat water
Then
Add the flavour
to the sparking water

Sip
Sip
Sip.

Unpeel
the
banana.

Zip
Zip
Zip.

Eat the banana
and
Drink the water
and
Don't go too fast
or
Too slow
and
Don't move
or
Speak
or
Touch
Touch
Touch
Anything
At
All.

[Except the banana. And the water. Of course.]

Weigh the empty skin.

Starting weight - skin weight = banana weight = adjust your calories and feel a little better.

Wrap the skin in old newspaper and throw it in the bin outside.

Wash
Wash
Wash
your hands.

Weigh
Weigh
Weigh
yourself.

Return to your living room.
Your tea isn't cold, don't worry.
It's in the travel mug.
It's fine.
It's fine.
It's fine.

Open
the yoghurt.

Slowly
Slowly
Slowly.

Do not spill it you're going to spill it if you spill it you can't eat it you can't you can't you can't.

Lick the yoghurt off the lid.
One.
Two.
Three.

Dip
a grain
of muesli
into
the yoghurt
using
the plastic
spoon.

One grain. Maybe 5. Never more than 6.

Eat.

Repeat
until
the yoghurt
and muesli
are gone.

Wash the spoon
and
the tiny tub
you used
for
the muesli.

Throw away the yoghurt container and ignore the voice in your head that screams, KEEP IT KEEP IT KEEP IT.

Wash
Wash
Wash
your hands.

Weigh
Weigh
Weigh
yourself.

Return to the couch.
You may check your phone, now.
Drink your tea
and your coke
and then
it's time
to run
on
the
treadmill
until
it's time
for lunch.

Good morning.
Have a great day.

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

A play ~

ACT ONE

The curtains rise. A girl sits in the waiting room of her therapist's office. Her name is T. She is wearing clothes that are several sizes too big for her but the fabric is still pressing against her and reminding her that she is fat fat fat. She is crying already but she doesn't know why.

Her therapist enters. His name is M.

M: Hey, T. Please come through.

She rises. Unsteady. She doesn't look at him or wait for him as she stumbles her way into his office. She grabs a handful of tissues before she sits down. Her eyes continue to leak.

He enters the room. Closes the door. She can feel his eyes on her. She grips the scarf she is using like a shield against her chest and says nothing.

M: Hey. Hey now. What's wrong.

T: Searches for her voice. Fails to find it.

M: What's happened?

T: Error 404: Voice Not Found. Tears, however, have been located. The source of the eye leak is unknown.

M: T?

T: Curls over and pretends she doesn't exist.

T, internally: Just make words happen just make words happen oh my God just make words happen.

This continues for several minutes until finally...

T, barely a whisper: I don't think I can speak today.

M: I can see that. How long have you been this anxious for? When last did you sleep? When last did you eat?

T: I don't
I don't
I don't
know

M: Okay. It's okay.

Silence.

M: Do you know why you're so anxious?

T: Leaks harder. Claws the skin off her arms to make the leaking stop. Her arms start to bleed. It helps, a little.

T: I am...I think I am...I am angry.

M: Why are you angry?

Silence. She reaches for more tissues. Her hair shield is wet and gross and plastered to her salt water covered face.

T: I am angry at me.

M waits. She knows this dance. She has to fill the silence.

T: I am angry at myself. I am angry that I texted you last week. I am angry that I went to see my dietician anyway after all that. I am angry at my weight. I am too big and fat and ugly and disgusting to be out in public. I feel...I feel...

Her voice disappears again.

M: You saw your dietician? I didn't think you would.

T: Nods.

M: How did it go?

T, with the volume turned way down: I...I... I told him that I don't see why I should I continue to see him. I told him that I am wasting his time.

M: What did he say about that?

T: He said that it is his choice to make.

M: Laughs.

M: Does that sound familiar?

T: Yeah. I hate you both.

M: Laughs more.

M: What else did he say?

T: He said that I need a higher level of care. That I need to be in hospital or residential treatment and that he is taking steps to make that happen.

M: Did that freak you out?

T, Counting. Counting. Counting. Clawing. Clawing. Clawing: No. He's been saying that for a long time now. I don't think he can make it happen.

M: Silence. Then,

M: Do you think you need a higher level of care?

T: No. I'm fine.

M: You're not fine. You know my stance on things, yeah?

T: Nods.

M: I would love to see receive a higher level of care. I would love to see you get some more help, which isn't about punishing you or hurting you. It's about keeping you safe. We need to keep you safe. We need to get your weight back on track so we can work on the other things.

Counting. Counting. Counting.
Her hands are wet and dirty.
Dumb animal husbandry.

M: Was it as bad as you thought it would be, seeing him?

T: Yes.

M: Laughs.

M: What made you decide to go?

T: I spend so long being so afraid of it that I just wanted to get it over and done with.

M: What made it bad?

T: This is going to sound dumb but he looks at me a lot. I know that is his way of trying to gauge what I might weigh and how much weight I've lost since I refuse to get onto the scale, but I don't like it. And he touches me.

M: He touches you?

T: Yeah. Like my hands and shoulders. He says it's his way of gauging my level of edema and muscle wastage.

M: Does he ask your permission?

T: No.

M: And it freaks you out?

T: Yes.

Silence. The plumber inside her head has fixed her eyes and they are no longer leaking. He has built a dam.

M: Is there anything that I do that freaks you out?

T: Silence.

M: It's not going to offend me. It would help me to know so I know how better to help you.

T: Well. There is one thing. But I don't want to say it.

M: Come on.

T: I can't.

M: Please?

T: I wrote the thing you asked me to write last week. I wrote about it in there.

M: Did you bring it?

T: Yes.

M: Can I read it?

T: Removes phone from pocket. Unlocks it. Hands it over.

M: Thank you.

There are several minutes of silence. T tries to disappear into the chair. The dam behind her eyes breaks and floods the room. Her voice leaves the building.

M: Did this all just come spewing out?

His voice is too far away to reach her. She is gone, gone, gone.

M: This isn't a criticism -- what you've written is fantastic -- but did you realize that it changes part of the way through? You go from being the therapist to just disclosing.

She is gone, gone, gone.

More silence. The audience is uncomfortable. Sometimes M asks questions. Sometimes M swears under his breath. T cries. And cries. And cries.

M: You brought it back. Fantastic. You wrote that it wasn't the girl's fault. Which part of that is bullshit?

T: No words no words no words.

M: Can you name the emotion you're feeling right now?

T: No words no words no words my lips taste like salt salt salt. I am sticky.

There's a knock at the door. M gets up. Thanks the person on the other side. Sits down with a blue blue blue mug in his hand.

M: Do you want a coffee? Black no sugar?

T: No words no words no words but I can shake my head. I think. Maybe. Okay. I can.

M: How many calories?

T: 2.

M: Laughs. Falls silent. Watches T as she vibrates a hole in the floor with her endless shaking.

M: Can we do a grounding exercise?

T: Does as she is told. Her words come back. The dam is in pieces. The plumbers try to fix it but it is useless unless useless. Her eyes leak the entire time. So does her nose. It is disgusting.

M, later: Can you tell me what you're feeling?

T: Well my eyes won't stop leaking.

M: That's called crying.

More time passes. More time than is hers to use. More time than he should be spending on someone as worthless as her.

Her eyes continue to leak.

M, later again: Did she really say that to you?

T: Yes.

M: What a fucking bitch.

More time. More silence. More leaks. They are drowning, by now. Surely they must be drowning.

Her heart hurts.

M, much, much later: Have you had enough for today?

T: Nods. Rubs her bloody fingernails on a tear stained tissue. Keeps her hands under her ScarfBlanketShield so he doesn't see.

M: Hey listen. Did you know that this is one of the few times that you...I'm not going to call it crying because I quite like the term Leaky Eyes. Did you know this is one of the few times that you've had leaky eyes in here?

T, still leaking: Is that a good thing?

M: Yes, because it means that you're connected to what's happening. You're working through it. The last few sessions you've shown real progress in terms of starting to work through this stuff.

T: Is mute.

M: Is lovely.

T: Leaks more.

M: Is still lovely.

The curtains fall.

END OF ACT ONE.

ACT TWO. HOURS LATER.

The curtains rise.

T: Is still leaking.

T: Is on the the treadmill.

T: Has 197 calories inside her and has decided that's enough. That's enough now.

T: Needs a plumber.

The curtains fall.

END OF ACT TWO.

Saturday, 30 July 2016

Space.

He said, I don’t understand your concept of taking up too much space.

She doesn’t really understand it, either.
She just knows
It matters.
It matters.
It matters.

What is too much space, anyway.
What is space as it relates to the human body at all?

She measures her space in pounds and inches. Eighty-three-point-three pounds. Twenty-one inch waist. Thirteen inch thighs. But what does that mean? Why does it matter?

Is she the space between her thighs, the daylight shining through? [Subtle references are important, you know.] Or is she the space her thighs take up when she sits in the chair – her chair – and her thighs expand to roughly the size of Texas? Does she take up more space in that moment? Does it change the amount of space she occupies at all?

He says, The amount of physical space you take up in that chair has diminished.

She doesn’t know why this is Important TM. But it is.

She takes up too much space.
That is all she knows.

It’s in
the way
she makes
people
worry.

Or
the way
she is awkward
and clumsy
and stupid
and ugly
and worthless
and small.

Small on the inside. Large on the outside.
She is a reverse Tardis.


It’s in
the way
he asks her
to tell him
that she
is still
breathing.

Or in
the way
her mom
tells her,
If you die you will be effectively killing me too.

It’s in all the ways and all the things and all she knows is that she is too much too much too much.
Too much.
Always too much.

She wants to be able to explain. She wants to say, But don’t you see? Can’t you understand? I have to be smaller. I have to be.

But she doesn’t quite know how to make the words come out.
Or how to say,
I need to be SmallTinyInsignificantNothingNothingNothing.

Or how to say,
I need the number to get smaller smaller smaller until it’s barely a number at all.

He says, You’re not George’s grandmother. You’re not in George’s Marvellous Medicine. You aren’t going to get smaller and smaller and smaller until you disappear.

She doesn’t say it
But she thinks,
Yes. That’s true. But I will die. And maybe
 that’s something
like
the
same

thing.

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

drowning.


It is an odd place to be
where you feel you cannot speak
or move
or think
or breathe
at all.

It is like drowning.
Slow-motion-can’t-breathe-can’t-move-can’t-think-drowning.

You know how to swim.
You do.
But your limbs
refuse
to work.

They are so heavy.
You are
so heavy.
Heavy.
Heavy.
Heavy.

You weigh too much.
You speak too much.
You eat too much.
You breathe too much.
You take up too much space.

You are
too much.

You are
You are
You are

heavy.

too much 
too dumb
too stupid
too numb

Heavy.

And so
you sink.

Down
Down
Down.

Into the abyss.



Drowning.

Saturday, 2 July 2016

Circles.

He walks behind her as they head towards his office. She holds her breath and counts his steps and focuses on remaining upright. The hallway seems to go on forever, until finally, finally, they reach the door. With trembling fingers and an unsteady hand she reaches out and grips the handle. She practically falls into his office but she holds it together long enough to shuffle over to her chair. She all but collapses into it and stares intently at the floor.

"How are you today?" he asks, following her inside.

"Good."

She knows her voice is lost in the empty space between them, so she tries again.

"I'm good. How are you?"

She can feel his eyes on her as he makes his way over to his chair. He doesn't answer her question.

"You looked a bit wobbly in the legs, there. Are you okay?"

Damn damn double damn.

"I'm fine," she says, shifting her head so that her hair covers her face. Long hair makes an excellent shield, you know.

"How are you feeling?"

She can hear the anticipatory doubt in his voice. She works hard to keep her words even.

"I'm fine."

Fine, fine, fine.
I am fine.

Silence hangs in the air. She tugs a loose thread on her sweater and counts the beats between her breaths.

"You look really unwell." He is refusing to back down. She pulls the thread in her sweater a little harder. The seam begins to unravel.

"How are you feeling?" he asks again. There's a level of insistence in his voice. She knows he's not going to let it go.

"I'm a bit lightheaded," she concedes. The thread snaps. "And tired. I'm just tired."

She can practically feel the skepticism radiating out of his pores. She tries to ignore it.

"Yeah? How many times have you hit the deck this week?"

She laughs.
He laughs.
But he doesn't find it funny.

"I don't know. A couple of times." She tries to sound nonchalant. He is not fooled.

"Too many to count?"

She chews the inside of her lip and remains silent.

He shifts in his seat and changes tact. "What's your heart rate right now?"

She shrugs. "I don't know."

"It's right there on your wrist," he says, nodding towards her fitbit. "Check it. Please. Tell me. Please."

She hates it when he says please.

It is 43. She says 49.

They talk in circles. This is dangerous. I'm really worried. When last did you eat. When last did you sleep. How are you going with suicidal thoughts.

She says, I don't know how to qualify that.

He says, Are you going to fatally harm yourself today?

She says, No.

Circles circles talking in circles.

Can you see the dietician again. Can I call acute care. When next are you going to see your doctor. How are you feeling. Are you okay. Are you okay. Are you

Okay.

She says, yes, yes, yes. I'm fine. I promise you I am fine.

He says, You're not fine. You need help.

She says, I have help.

He says, It's not enough.
You need a team.
I'm not

enough.

She says, I don't want a team. I only want you.

"I'm not going anywhere. But a team can help in ways that I'm not qualified to help. Medically. With medication. They can help. Let's get you more help"

"I'm really scared of having a bunch of doctors all saying I need to do something I don't want to do."

"Doesn't that tell you something? If three or four medical professionals are all saying you need to stop, don't you think that means something?"

She tries to disappear into the chair.
It doesn't work.
Solid matter, and all.

He sighs a lot.
Says, I'm worried, a lot.  I'm worried. I'm concerned. I'm scared.

Scared.

She hate hate hates the scared word. He's not allowed to be scared. She is scared. She. Scared is her emotion. He is not allowed to share it.

At the end of the session, when she tries to stand, her Bambi legs made an appearance and she doesn't quite make it out of the chair. She sits there staring at the floor. He stands there staring at her. Indecisive. Unsure. Concerned.

Always concerned.

She counts
Then

She holds her breath

as she
stands
up.

Slowly slowly slowly. Almost there. Slowly. But he wants to talk. So she has to breathe. And grip the arm of the faded chair in an effort to remain vertical.

He says, Are you always this unsteady?

She says, I'm okay.

He says, How the fuck do you run while you're like this?

She laughs. He swears so much. She swears a lot more because of him. He is a bad influence on her.

She says, Now you know why I hit the deck so often.

She waits for him to open the door.
He doesn't.
He always does it.
But he doesn't.

He says her name.
She doesn't look at him.
But she waits.

He says, Can I walk you over to the hospital?

She snaps.
No. No. No.
No.
I'm fine.
No.

She doesn't look at him.
Doesn't know if he responds.

The words tumble out of her mouth.
Bye. Thank you. Good bye.

She opens the door herself.

It is sunny as she walks over to her car. On the way she stops on her favourite patch of sidewalk. There's a manhole cover in the middle of the pathway. There's a label stamped into the cement. It says, 36 kilograms. She stands on it for a while until her Bambi legs go away.

She doesn't know why it makes her feel better.

But it does.

Friday, 20 May 2016

Steps.

It's just ten minutes. Ten minutes and then it's midnight and your midnight run can begin. You can wait ten minutes, can't you? Of course you can. I know you're tired but you can stay awake for ten more minutes.

It's just an hour. It's just an hour and then you'll be at ten thousand steps and you can take a shower and go to sleep. You can stay awake for another hour, can't you? Of course you can. I know you're tired but it's only an hour.

It's just another twenty minutes. Look how close you are to burning 600 calories! You can run for another twenty minutes and make it to 600 calories, can't you? Of course you can. I know you're tired but you're nearly there. I promise you will be able to rest soon.

Look at how far you've come! Only eight thousand more steps until you reach twenty thousand! Imagine how good you'll feel going to bed knowing that when you wake up, you'll already be at twenty thousand steps for the day. Eight thousand more is nothing. You can do it. I know you can do it. You will be in bed soon. I promise I will let you sleep soon.

Oh, darling, look at you go. You're over twenty thousand already! You can keep going. I know you can keep going. You can get to thirty thousand before you get into bed. It's only 2am. You can run for another hour. You only wake up at seven am. That's more than enough time in bed, isn't it? Of course it is. Don't be lazy. Don't be pathetic. Don't complain. You can do it. I know you can.

Thirty thousand and forty two! Oh, my love, I'm so proud of you. But you'd better not stop on such an ugly number. You wouldn't be safe. I want you to be safe. I need you to be safe. I can keep you safe if you keep running until you get to a safe number.

Thirty six thousand! You're doing so well. You don't need sleep. You don't need to rest. You don't need food. You don't need anything. Keep going. You're so close to forty thousand. You can do it. You can run further than ever before. Don't stop now. Don't fail now. You fail at so much. Don't fail at this.

Fifty thousand. Oh, what a beautiful number. Yes, my love. Yes, you can rest now. You can sleep now. Just think; in two hours when I wake you, you'll only have fifty thousand more to go before the clock resets and we begin again.

Sweet dreams.

Sunday, 24 January 2016

Waiting.

[I found this while looking for something else. It's old, but whatever. It comes with a trigger warning. Stay safe Xo]



She sits in front of her laptop, staring at the screen. Waiting for the words to arrive. Waiting for her fingers to move. Waiting.

Waiting.

The air seems heavy. Vicious. She takes a breath in.

And holds it.

Holds it.

Holds it.

Do I really have to breathe?

She releases it.



She stares at her bookshelves, overwhelmed by the weight of her dreams. One day, she wants to be there. One day, she wants to have written words so good that people want to own them. Keep them. Take them to bed and read them under the cover of darkness. Flashlights and pillow forts. Like it’s supposed to be.

But not today.

Today all she wants is to keep her heart beating.

Well.

No.

Not even that.

She really doesn’t give a fuck if it beats or not.

It would be quite okay if it decided to quit.

Just as long as she wasn’t to blame.

There’s nothing worse than being to blame.



Her eyes wander down to her wrists. To the veins growing more prominent every day. Are they taunting her? Tempting her? Teasing her?

How many more times must she endure it?

There’s a scar alongside one of them. Silvery and delicate. Offset.

She was fatter then.

The thought sickens her.

She thinks back on everything she’s eaten today.

It’s too much.

It’s always fucking too much.

Why do you even need to eat? Be like a fucking flower, petal. Survive on the sun. Flowers are beautiful.

You are not.

Be like a flower.



The music is too loud. It makes it hard to think.

Good.

Your thoughts are worthless anyway.

She stands. The dogs look at her sleepily. Hoping for treats. Hoping for attention. She floats by.

Into the bathroom.

Because what’s the fucking point?

It’s behind the mirror.

Waiting.

She tugs it free. It glistens in the clear light.

Oh, it says. You.

Her wrist is covered in scar tissue.

She has to push harder.

But that’s okay.

It’s okay.



Okay.

Hi. It's like 'hello', only shorter.

It’s been a long time since I’ve even thought about posting something here.

As it is, I don’t know what I want to say now. Which doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.
I just wanted to say hi, I guess. Let you all know that I’m still here. Vaguely. Barely. Hardly. Assuming there is still a ‘you all’ around to say hi to.

I haven’t been writing.

Well no, that’s a lie. I’ve been writing every day. I just haven’t been writing something worth sharing. I haven’t been writing for an audience. I’ve been writing for me. And M, but he doesn’t count. Ha.

Sometimes when I remember some of the upbeat Yay-Sparkle-Rainbows-Things-Get-Better posts that I wrote here, I want to go back in time and kick that girl in the teeth. Hard. Things don’t get better. Things pretend to get better, but only so that they can fall spectacularly apart.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Hmmm. This isn’t what I meant to say.
I’m drunk on sleep deprivation.

Anyway. I just wanted to say hi to anyone who is still around. I will be back to posting regularly eventually. One day soon. Hopefully sooner than soon.



Xo