My body

There are currently tears streaming down my cheeks. Which is much less unusual than it used to be.
I used to be much more composed than this.
I think this is what happens when you are at odds with your body. Because the last time I cried this much was when I was a teenager coming to terms with the fact that I am fat.
A fact that society and my parents helped me to understand. I might not have gotten there on my own.

I've been thinking so much about bodies.
Women's bodies in particular.
How having them makes us liable to get yelled at, followed, and grabbed.
Even though we are built this way to create life.
My sister-in-laws (whom I love. Whom I consider to be more sisters than in-laws because they make my brothers so happy that I would thank them every day if I could without making it weird) have made, or are making, life.
Little faces that have my brothers expressions. Little hands that grab mine. Little hearts that live in my heart.
My body could do that too. That's why I get called at, followed, complimented in vulgar ways even though I am still fat. (and some ways still that teenager realizing she's fat)
But I would rather it didn't. I would be no good for that little body that would come from my body.
So I take a daily pill.
To prevent the making of life.
But, oh, what it does to my body.
Now my body is bigger, and more sensitive.
And it makes tears all the time. For extended periods of time. Sometimes over nothing.
Sometimes at the worst times.
In public,
In front of my boyfriend,
At work.

So I went to the doctor to try to make a change.
I made myself even more vulnerable
And now I know that my body is also infected
Its "abnormal"
So I have to go back and let the doctor open me wider and look closer
And now I'm terrified of this body and what it could do to me
Is it because you know that I hate you? That I wish you looked like other bodies?
Is it because I made all those jokes about you, terrified that they would be made behind my back if I didn't?
I want to love you. I do.
But society says no.
And because of you I get yelled at, followed, and (statistically) probably one day grabbed.
I should care for you because our government does not
But you don't feel like mine
If anything, I am yours
You call the shots, bring the tears, and cause monthly pain that makes me double over and bite through my lip

Today I'm crying.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe one day I'll figure out how to love you the way they tell me I should
Maybe one day I'll get rid of the fat or learn to love it
I know for certain that if I every do decide to make a new life, I will teach self-love first and always
I will help bridge the gap between my baby and their body and I will arm them with the power to see beauty in themselves as much as in others

Starts and stops

This was meant to be a collection of fiction. The plan was always to write truths, but to wrap the truths in beautiful lies. But there has been a dreaded 5 letter word that starts with B and ends with K. I won't say it and I won't write it.
There have been beginnings and the beginnings of middles, but no ends.
But I thought that maybe if I listed out the starts for myself then one would jump out and beg to be finished.
These are the sentences that are followed by a blinking curser or a blank page. Characters held in corners, waiting to be told what to do next. Characters waiting to tell me what they will do next.


There is something about my brother-in-law that makes my words stick in my throat.

She came in and sat down next to me, but it was all wrong.

“I don’t know what you write about how you make me feel.”

The sign hanging above the door was made of wood and chipping away in the corner. 

There once was a photographer who lived alone.

Lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling trying to breath under the heavy arm draped across your chest. 

Once upon a time, the world needed help. 

Letters

My parents received a letter that was addressed to me in their care.
Because they're my parents; they opened it.
It was a letter to myself that I had been forced to write at last years graduation ceremony for the service position I held for 10 months.
I sent it to my parents because I wasn't sure where I would be in a year.

Because I'm me; I didn't take it very seriously.
I called myself "darling" and "princess," and (much to my dads unjustified dismay) I used the word shit. Several times.
I did record some wishes for myself. A wish that 12 months after writing the letter I would not have yet failed yet in my California Girl dream and returned home to Boston. A wish that I would find a fulfilling career. So probably not the bakery that I work at now.
I did not mention any dreams about where I might be living.
But from where I write these words; in an old messy apartment with flickering electricity, sinking bathroom floor, and permanently stained kitchen- this is probably not what I had in mind.
But it is in a beautiful town on a beautiful street and I can walk to a job that pays my affordable rent.

The short scrawling note says nothing about romance.
It makes no mention of my heart, neither then nor now.
A year ago, I had no clue that in the same week that my parents called so my mother could read my own words to me over the phone (which was an eerie experience to say the least) I would wake up on a day off, go for a walk to get myself some coffee, and then sit down to write another letter.
A letter to someone else.
Because I'm still me; I express my emotions through letters and words.
And though I certainly didn't see it coming then, I am in love now.
But I would never want to send a letter to warn the version of me who sat in the reception hall, uncomfortable in her business casual clothes, rolling her eyes and (most likely) a stray curl between two fingers.
I would never want to ruin the surprise of what else was waiting for me here on the West coast.
Someone wonderful, and smart and funny and a terrific pain in the butt.
Someone to tell secrets to and laugh with. Someone who lets me sing into the breeze as the world passes by through the cars open windows.
I won't write myself another letter to open in a year.
I won't ask myself about whats changed and whats stayed the same.
I don't want to know that shit.
I don't want to now what comes next.
Because I have always been me; and I did something to deserve him.
And I can't wait to see what comes next.

Words about my dad.

I open the mail, which does not need a return address because I would recognize my dads sprawling letters or my moms perfectly executed curls of ink anywhere.
I find, as expected, at least two articles cut out from The Globe.
In pen, above the title, my name in all caps followed by a barely legible note.
My dad sends me every single article that is about writing, about good people trying to help the homeless, or has a picture of a dog. But, he especially sends me every single article that he thinks is well-written or is formatted in an interesting way. And the note always says something like "this reminds me of that story you wrote," or "this made me think of you," or "you can write something like this and send it in."
Some parents are quiet about their pride.
Not mine.
My dad documents every single moment of his visit with his granddaughters. We've always made fun of him for being unable to look at them without looking through the lens, but I've also always known that these pictures will be sent to my grandparents who only get to see their great-granddaughters every few years. And now that I have moved to California, they are for me too. So I don't feel like I am missing out on my nieces lives.
My dad does this for me, despite the fact that I moved to the West coast without a plan or a job.
He sends me well-written articles despite the fact that I decided to get my MFA in creative writing without taking a single writing class.
He informs me of social justice events despite the fact that I would rather make too little money working at a non-profit than make a stable income as a teacher.
He asks about the man I am in love with, despite the fact that he has not met him yet.
He gives me endless hours of advice verging on lectures. But that is because he is worried.
Because he is my dad.
And I am his daughter, so sometimes I roll my eyes. And sometimes I get frustrated with his point of view and try to scold him into seeing mine.
We don't always see eye-to-eye when it comes to gender roles and identity. And sometimes I feel like he doesn't get me because I get red in the face explaining my views on marriage and children.
But the day after I refuse to stop correcting little things like his use of the word "waitress," I get a letter in the mail. Three articles in all. One about love, one about friendship, one sweet piece about the author finding beauty in the survival of a tree. Three little snapshots that I identify with. It's like three little pieces of the puzzle that make up my personality.
And I know that it's my dads way of telling me that he sees me every day in the good parts of his world. And when he doesn't have the words to tell me that, he sends it to me with the words of others.

To whom it may concern...

I recently turned 30.
A  girl can't hit a mark like that without getting a little introspective.
Not a girl like me.
I began taking note of myself.
And before I knew it, I had made a list
Because I haven't changed much

1.  I still toss words around all day before I set them down
2. I still think comfort means my dads old clothes
3. I still get caught up in tiny details to procrastinate what I fear about the big picture
4. I still think that love is big and wonderful and magic. But it can't be your whole world
5. I still want to perfect everything immediately and feel like a failure when I can't
6. I still love to end on an even number

But there's a a lot that's new

1. I call myself a writer out loud 
2. I'm on a new coast, in a wonderland far from home
3. I am in love
4. I have lost my security blanket "Everything will be better once I move to California"
5. Every day I care less and less about what others think about me
6. I value balance in all things

I have been thinking a lot about clothes lately. 

How does a former emo girl age gracefully?

How does she honor her inner hellions desire to remain a non-conformist while trying to pick out something flattering?

How does she deal with 30?

Same way she rallies to go out when her inner grandma wants to stay in.

With red lipstick. 

Needs and Wants

I'm feeling a bit lost and directionless
a bit dis en fran chised 
A little out of control
which no one likes
  And I like even less.

They tell me they love me
But sometimes my skin stretches and hardens like a barrier
The words knock themselves against it until they're black and blue
And I see them
But I can't feel them from my tower

This isn't what I sat down to write
This is words flowing
without any permission given
Soaked in self pity and a little girls boredom
Because Ok
My life isn't perfect
neither is yours
And I have what I need
I hope you do too
It's just that what I want feels out of reach
But Ok
I just don't feel as great as I thought I would
I need to shift the focus but I can't find the lens
I need to fix it instead of dwelling in metaphors
I want a quick fix
But theres a reason those don't really exist
Even Wonder Woman needed two separate lives to keep her shit together