Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Why are you here?" she asked me on the first visit.
"Do you want me to be blunt?" Idon't even know why I'm there.
"Yeah blunt is good."
"I'm tired of purging." I don't know if I really am. Sure, yes, I'm exhausted. I've been purging for the last six years of my life. Sure, I suppose I could die from it. Six months ago I was purging twelve times a day. I sit there in that chair and am stumped. Why do you want recovery? Do I? I don't want to die before grad school I say. Am I really tired of it, am I really tired of starving and purging? Yes. No. i sit back and wait. And then something happened, and Ivory (my thearipist) took action. Gives me a plan, a little food here and there. I like her so I try for her at least. Suddenly now I'm thrown in this world of heartburn because thats what you get when you dont eat for days and then suddenly you have food in you. The body freaks and the mind tells the body to purge so you go to two different gas stations and purge until theres nothing left and you go to class and dig your tiny bird bone hands deep into your ribs thinking that they're suddenly gone. And you're late to clas because there are too many stairs and your bones are like lead and you tell yourself that food just isn't sitting right with you right now and it hurts too much and obviously your body can't handle it so no more food for you.
Sneakly little bird secrets at the nurses office whose scale is fourteen pounds off and I am deemed healthy. There. I am healthy. I am stubborn. Life is great. Hey, I'm healthy. Miss High and Mighty Nurse said so. I shut up, sit there, supresss a smile. Ivory is not happy at the visit. I go back into my world of eaiting once every other day or so, or eating in front of family post fake things about loving/cant wait to eat/(insert food item here) I put on a smile, fix my hair, consume too much coffee and take the world by storm. I want to be tiny, shrink up, fly away, live up to my nick names of Little Bird and Bitty Bug. I can not see. I will never see. I am a liar, but I don't want to be. She told me herself that relapses are a part of recovery. Then why even try? I say curled up in the chair, picking at my numb fingers. I don't remember what she said. All I can think about is how light and empty I feel and how the holidays are coming up and last year how everything broke and I'm running the streets in seventeen degree weather too many diet pills and caffiene and green tea pills in my system running running running and the days and nights all run together and one day and two days and three days pass and I have not opened my mouth but I was still alive then and surely I'l lbe alive this year I'm stronger and smarter and my mind will not give into my flesh. I drink black coffee and listen to NPR. I will reach my goals. Nothing will touch me this year, I will slip in and out and build fences around myself and things will be safe and I will be safe and I will not be here i will be up so high that nothing makes sense and nothing will go wrong and everything will dissapear because I'm floating somewhere. But then I think of Ivory, or of my beloved Matt and Emily who in their young 27 years see me as their sort of daughter who have seen me crash at my worst and who still love me. Emily who asked me last week if I'd been eating and i say yes because i dont want to hurt them I dont want to lie to them but i lie anyway and she knows and she and matt give me a hug careful not to crush me but we hear the pop anyway and they get sad and say that they love me so much and could never hate me if i'm having trouble and just tell them. but it hurts too much to hurt them so i keep my mouth shut and go on with my day a cloud of guilt hanging over my head and guilt leads to punishment and i'm right back where i started. why does it even matter, why should it matter, it doesnt matter. we all fail in the end. give me my books, my tea, my paints and ink, i'll put them all in a thrift store suitcase and i'll be on my way.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Standing in a white dress
Holding a needle and thread
She first sewed her mouth shut
To keep secrets locked in
Next she made a pair of angel wings
Out of scraps of paper and forgotten dreams
That were still left over from the war
She put her typewriter in a thrift store suitcase
Along with a photograph of the morning sky
and with her bruised and bloody feet
took the first steps of faith

Thursday, August 27, 2009

things keep changing
like the tides of the ocean
and i keep slipping further away
only to lie down among the ships wreckage
where are the sun, and the stars?
the clouds that I would rest my head upon?
home is not home
the only home I know
is that of sleepless nights
swollen eyes
and raw throats

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Respecting the Process

My tattooed angel gives me a hug, his aftershave making me feel safe
and always giving me the strength to make it through the day
"Sweetie are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
Hartley chuckles. "You're a liar."
He knows. He's watched me shrink, stable out, shrink againWorry over countless restaurant tables with only a glass of water in front of me.
Always watching, standing behind me, in case I fall. Giving me silent signals that things will be okay.
His physical scars shine, while my emotional ones are revealed.
"I'm stuck on two paths. One life, and one death. Right now, I'm closer to death." I whisper.
For the first time, fear in his voice.
"What are you doing?" He's suspected it, I confirm it. He is silent.
"Well, you can't go out and be a social puker. Just as I can't go out and be a social drinker. I'd drink myself to death. I've watched you for months, lost and hurt and feeling like no one understands."He holds back tears. The stars and clouds are holding their breath.
"I need you to know that you're not alone."
He gives me another hug, and a different kind of acid rushes up my throat.

Rachel comes over and holds me, her hand brushing my hair away from my face.
She starts praying, whispering in my ear. AnDrew and Hartley, surrounding us . "I want to fight with you. I want to fight for you, when you can't do this, I want to fight.
We want to fight."
I am so weak. I give in, the tears flow and these angels hold me tight.
"I'm not going to be your boss anymore." I look up in shock.
"That means we can get tea, go on walks, hang out.
That means I can teach you how to eat."
I cry harder. I know right then, they aren't going to let me die.

Opening up. Begining to trust. Letting them hold me. Being honest.
Respecting the process. Fighting through rough waters. Keeping my head above.
A week passes.
Random phone calls that three people lie through, just to see how I am close to midnight.
"It's Rachel. Josiah told AnDrew who told me that I needed to call you, is everything okay?"
I used to pray to God, to send me an angel.
To help me out of this self created hell.
He has sent them just in time
as the harsh reality of the last five years, are realized
and are taking their toll on my nineteen year old body.

Something is breaking, years of chains and addiction
coming off of these hollow bones
I've been submersed in an ocean of several things
of light, of hope, of love, of wind,
of people fighting for and with me
reminding me of the hope I thought I'd lost.
The darkness that clung to my frame
is being replaced with a new days light
my wings slowly begin to grow
as I take back the life that is rightfully mine
and with a small smile on my pale face
I'm ready for my life to begin

Monday, June 1, 2009

Paper Walls

she built a newspaper city on her wall
to create a new world for herself.
where everyday
the clouds and sun and wind
smelled like hopes and dreams
coming back to her
after floating aimlessly down
an empty street
when the rain fell
it only helped to nourish
the creativity in her head
and to help the paint brushes move along.
she would borrow ink from the midnight sky
and use the stars to light her paper
in newspaper city
tin cans connected by stretched string
were ways to say I love you
and she’d never have to pay the bills
because life is simple
smelling of apples
time passed and she grew older
and the white clouds turned to grey
and the sun didn’t always shine
the empty streets were just that, empty
and soon enough the string broke between the tin cans
and mailmans only stopped by to deliver bills
she sat outside her newspaper city
as it crumbled down around her
and the tears slipped down her cheeks
smearing the ink and ruining the tape
that held her world together
years later packed away in a box
were lost things of tape and newspaper
she cleared everything off of a wall
called in sick to work
and became a kid once more

Green Beans and Cello Strings

with Zoë Keating blasting in her ears
if you have the right to blast classical music
for she had the right to do this(and more)
she steps out of her car
and approaches the neon sign
her feet timidly carrying her closer
to the cause of anxiety.
this must be conquered.
Zoë plays faster and faster,
the music swelling up in her ears
her haunting cello setting the mood

with her head held high,
she walks in, and grabs a basket
noting how beautiful it looks empty
the glare of the lights on the tile
and the brightness of the vegetables
almost blind her
with fear
peoples wandering eyes
(only on groceries)
must certainly be focused on her

she becomes lost in the strings
lost in another world
and reaches out for a handful
of green beans
how much is too much?
she wonders, mumbling aloud
quickly tying up the bag
she throws it in the basket
before she changes her mind
and with her body trembling
walks towards the checkout

she sits in her car a moment
looking back at the neon sign
stunned as the song finishes
whether she liked to admit it or not,
progress had been made.

Sweet Dreams

the man in the moon
looks down at the ships
being rocked to sleep
on the edge of the world
he lets out a sigh
wishing he could close his eyes
and rest, if only for a second
in the oceans arms.