2. I should have been a better everything. I should have been a more confident child
so my baby sitter wouldn’t have abused me. I should have been a gentler parent
so my step daughter wouldn’t be so broken. I should have been a more empathetic
friend so I wouldn’t be so lonely. I should have been a faithful wife, for all
the reasons you can imagine. I should have been a better something, everything,
at about a million intersections along the way.
3. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die too old and I don’t want to die too young. Still, I think about dying a great deal. Once you’ve opened that door, it never completely closes, again. I’ve planned my entire funeral, down to the music and location. (Although those things will probably change since the guest list is getting smaller as I get older.)
4. I hate my body. I feel like I’m wearing a fat-suit. I say I am body positive. I say size doesn’t matter. I love women who wear their skin like they paid full price for it. Still, every jiggle and bulge, every dimple and stretch mark, makes me furious and disgusted and ashamed. 126 lbs was no more representative of my self love that 226 is but I still hate this body.
5. I blame other people for my failings. It’s not my fault. It never is. I have crazy parents and my friends don’t understand. My lovers were either emotionally unavailable or smothered me. If only they’d tried harder to know me, everyone would have realized my worth.
6. No one has ever left me. I leave first. That sounds boastful but the truth is, every one of them would have left, eventually. I simply left first. As soon as the winds changed, I packed my shit and ran. I never gave anyone a chance to leave first.
8. I grew fat to protect myself from my own bad decisions. I detest my utter lack of discipline and self-control.
9. I can’t be silent. Ever. I can’t tolerate my own voice. Sometimes I write my thoughts, but I never just sit with them. Television, books, and music drowned out the sound of my own inner dialog. I’m afraid of what might be lurking in there, waiting to bubble to the surface and break me.
10. I might not be mentally ill. I might just be a selfish, self-involved, and lazy person who wants to drug herself into submission.
3. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die too old and I don’t want to die too young. Still, I think about dying a great deal. Once you’ve opened that door, it never completely closes, again. I’ve planned my entire funeral, down to the music and location. (Although those things will probably change since the guest list is getting smaller as I get older.)
4. I hate my body. I feel like I’m wearing a fat-suit. I say I am body positive. I say size doesn’t matter. I love women who wear their skin like they paid full price for it. Still, every jiggle and bulge, every dimple and stretch mark, makes me furious and disgusted and ashamed. 126 lbs was no more representative of my self love that 226 is but I still hate this body.
5. I blame other people for my failings. It’s not my fault. It never is. I have crazy parents and my friends don’t understand. My lovers were either emotionally unavailable or smothered me. If only they’d tried harder to know me, everyone would have realized my worth.
6. No one has ever left me. I leave first. That sounds boastful but the truth is, every one of them would have left, eventually. I simply left first. As soon as the winds changed, I packed my shit and ran. I never gave anyone a chance to leave first.
7. I’m
a great writer with a mediocre imagination and a remedial understanding of
punctuation.
8. I grew fat to protect myself from my own bad decisions. I detest my utter lack of discipline and self-control.
9. I can’t be silent. Ever. I can’t tolerate my own voice. Sometimes I write my thoughts, but I never just sit with them. Television, books, and music drowned out the sound of my own inner dialog. I’m afraid of what might be lurking in there, waiting to bubble to the surface and break me.
10. I might not be mentally ill. I might just be a selfish, self-involved, and lazy person who wants to drug herself into submission.
No comments:
Post a Comment