Starlight

There aren’t enough stars in the city;
They don’t get down this far.
We get the little light-crumbs
Leftover from the grand feast of the cosmos,
The galaxies and the planets,
And I am malnourished from lack of starlight.

The Sound of Insects

I wish I had the patience to grow my hair out long. Maybe it says something about me that I don’t.

I need some way to redeem my flaws. I need something—just one thing—so beautiful it outshines the rest of me. Fills up every crevasse and makes me appear smooth; flawless. Or as if the flaws were meant to be. Forgivable.

I think that’s what I want, for the universe to forgive me. I’m not sure what for. For not being everything I strive to be.

There have been times I’ve felt as if I was doing alright. Once particularly I was exploring the neighborhood, dashing through people’s sprinklers where they sprayed onto bits of the sidewalk and I felt I was alright. A police officer pulled over to the side of the road and asked me if I’d been drinking. No, sir, no; just young and free and for once not drowning. For once spinning on my toes with no trembling.

What would it even be like to have nothing—not one thing—that you hated about yourself?

I watched a movie once, based on a true story. Based on the diary of a man committed to suicide by starvation. It was called “The Sound of Insects” and it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. He lived in the woods in a tent. He never left; he drank rainwater. He was found shriveled and wrapped in blankets with a journal and his thoughts were lovely. I wish I had written them. I starved myself too but not for as long, and my diaries during the time were nowhere near as haunting as his. I suppose my goals were different. Self-destruction still, to be sure, but not in the same way.

I remember it and I observe that this Chardonnay is not as potent as I would like and I remember the sound of insects myself, the bugs in the woods where my parents live. In the summer the cicadas are so loud you can hear them from the house. It makes sense I guess; there are lots of trees. I miss the sound of insects. You don’t hear them much in the city, here in the world of blocks and hard surfaces. Small spaces, low ceilings. I don’t miss the grasshoppers bumping against my legs but I miss the sound their wings make.

Lately I lay in bed and write, the cat a constant presence in my lap.

If no one saw what I did, would I still do it? No one sees, and I do things still, but sometimes only for the hope.

Pieces

My things look used. They are smudged and scratched; lumpy and deflated. I like my used things, though. They look vandalized by life in the way that life does to things when there is lots of it—lots of stories to tell. My body looks well-used, too; scarred and suntanned, a little muscle tone beneath curves that are soft and well-fed these days. Lots of stories to tell there, too.

I thought about them from the passenger seat downtown at midnight. The pieces of broken glass beside the median glinted so brilliantly in the headlights that they might as well have been as many diamonds—and why not? Why not call them diamonds if the sparkle just the same? Why not call it love if your heart is in your throat and your stomach is where your heart should be? Who gets to say, anyway? For a moment, from certain angles, they are diamonds; and for a moment—just a moment, from certain angles—I am beautiful.

But from most angles I fear I am no more than so many pieces, fragments contained within a human-shaped membrane. There are so many things that I am and so many things I am not and no one can see all of them at once; I am a broken mirror with pieces missing. Who took them, when I wasn’t looking? Who threw them away?

Though I am incomplete, lately I’ve been braver. I’ve been braver and more honest, with myself and with others. And while I’m brave, let’s talk. Let’s talk about how I’m tired of apologizing for myself. For being in pieces, pieces of El. Not one thing all the way through; full of contradictions and ironies.

I want to live them and love them—the pieces. The good and the imperfect. I want to embrace them, hang each one around my neck and wrists or from my earlobes, let them glint and catch the light. I want to adorn myself with who I am, and twirl in the sunlight and shine and flash. I want to live as if I was beautiful, to believe it so deeply and live it so vividly that others believe it too. I want to glow.

But maybe we’re already glowing. I think we are, living in this place where the music sounds like the weather and the weather is always changing. It’s a sensory symphony, as we hear and see and taste and smell and touch the world; as we hear and see and taste and smell and touch each other.

It is beautiful, and I am a part of it. I am a piece. I am pieces within a piece of a whole. The whole is beautiful, and though the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, the pieces make beauty too, don’t they? They are what makes the whole full of beauty, beauty-full.

A piece of beauty.

I think I can live with that.




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Memoirs of a Disorder

I am sixteen, and they tell me I’m obsessed. All I want is to be dust-small, paper thin. I’m not and yet my edges still seem to cut people. My mother cries sometimes.

I am sixteen I envy the mushrooms in the yard; they thrive on the leftovers of life. I try to eat the leftovers in the fridge, but bite by bite I spit them out into the toilet. I do not thrive.

I am sixteen and I feel the cold gnawing at the bottom of my stomach and I hate it and I love it; I love it because I hate it, and it’s me who gets to decide. I’m sixteen and the power of self-denial is intoxicating. I deny the gnawing for so long that I stop feeling it. I have conquered.

I am sixteen and I run. I run six miles every day. I get shin splints. I run. I get a stress fracture. I run. I wheeze and cough and cry. I run. I love that with each step I am burning myself down and down, each day occupying slightly less space than the day before. I am in control. I run.

I am sixteen and I am so tired.

“Do something nice for the part of your body you hate the most.” My counselor says. “Make it feel pretty.” So I get my navel pierced and wait to like my stomach better. I suppose it helps a little.

I am sixteen and I have gone 60 days without anything sweet. On day 61 I eat the hard, creamy chocolate guilt. I feel sick. I eat more. On day 62 I hate myself, and all I eat is some lettuce with red wine vinegar, and then only because my mother is watching.

I am sixteen and my brother makes me half of a sandwich when he sees I did not eat lunch. Usually content not to confront me, even he is moved to action by the way my bones poke up under my skin. “Please eat it.” He begs. “You need to eat.” It is so sweet of him that I eat a few bites, but when he leaves I give the rest to the dogs. They follow me around a lot now; I am always giving them food. They leave no evidence. Nothing in the trash for my dad to find when he empties it; nothing to clog the toilet. I am sixteen and I have learned these things; I have become clever in the ways of secret self-destruction.

I am sixteen at a potluck at church, holding a bowl of soup in my shaky hands. “Look, she’s eating something!” I hear the whisper a few seats down the table. I ignore the comment. I weigh ninety pounds and still I pretend that no one can tell I have a problem.

I’m seventeen and I stop running. I’m too tired. I gain weight. Isn’t that recovery? It feels like failure. But I am so tired. It happens. I cannot stop it any longer. I close my mind’s eyes shut tight; grit my teeth and let myself grow.

I am seventeen and I begin liking little stories; stories about how people woke up and made it through the day. What they thought about, besides what they craved and what they denied themselves; besides unattainable goals and forbidden things. I like stories where things are ok. Not all the time, maybe, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok.

I am eighteen and I am ok. Not all the time, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok. I throw away the jeans I’ve grown out of. I know that I will never fit into them again, so why let them take up the space? My counselor calls it acceptance. It feels more like surrender. I gain more weight than I would like, but I am ok.

I am nineteen and it is a rock in the back of my brain—a constant, subtle weight—it is white noise in the background of my whole life. But I am able to ignore it now, and that is more freedom than I’ve had in a few years. I live.

I am nineteen and I feel I am coming up out of the ground, breaking the surface after years of tunneling. The light is bright and disorienting. I am confused by the freedom, the wide open spaces; the choices that are mine—that have always been mine but I thought they weren’t. Taking them back makes me nervous. What do I do with them now? My reference points are dismantled after years of crashing back and forth between gluttony and starvation; I must re-learn them. I must re-learn how to eat. It is clumsy. Usually it takes conscious thought, but sometimes it takes no thought at all. Sometimes it is smooth sailing; sometimes it is an equation to solve.

I am nineteen and the equations grow easier, in time. Not because they have become any more simple, but because I’ve improved my psychological algebra. I miss when one plus one was two and I never had to solve for X, but at least I’ve learned how. Maybe algebra is what it takes to thrive.

I am twenty and I solve for X and I move on and I live.

I am twenty-one and it is a thorn buried deep in the sole of my shoe. Most of the time I can barely feel it; only sometimes when I step just right.

I am twenty-one, and I step carefully.

I am twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. I live. I solve for X. I will always solve for X, I think. But I live.

I live.


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The Kitchen is Cold; The Coffee is Warm

I want to be a kaleidoscope, an eclectic sparkling thing, all bits and pieces of beautiful; glinting shards and shiny baubles. I want to reflect the light and all that is good in the world; send it bouncing back out into the universe, all shattered and shimmering. I want to make no sense, except the sense you make of something too dazzling to fully understand; a whirling chaos of beauty. But in my efforts I’ve learned that there is a fine line between a kaleidoscope and a plain old mess. Sometimes I look at the people around me and wonder where they put their weaknesses. Maybe they’ve hidden them under their chairs, palms sweating and ankles crossed, praying no one will look. I seem to wear mine on my sleeve.

Maybe it’s just that I’m tired. Once upon a time I could sleep anywhere: in the car, on planes, even sitting up, if the chair wasn’t too hard. These days it takes a comfy bed, total darkness, and Lunesta to coax me into slumber. Anyway, I’m always tired, and this issue with my body at times demands a certain sort of Gnosticism to maintain my sanity; a sort of wishful thinking about the separation of body and soul. My body is sick, but I am not. I am free and full and alive. I am a kaleidoscope, or would be, if not for the clutter of my body.

I would be so many things.

I know we are one and the same, though, my body and I. I look forward to the day we make peace, whether that be in this life or the next, but for now the beast breathes down the back of my neck.

The other night I dreamed that I was dead. I was a spirit or a ghostly thing, still attached to this world but unable to engage in it. No one could hear or see me; I passed through walls and anything my hands grasped for. But I could talk to God. Closer in spirit than He had been in life, I experienced an intimacy with Him that I never had before. It was just me and God as I hovered above the treetops. It was frightening in the way most intimacy is, but thrilling too, though I was on the edge of panic in the loneliness I felt being unable to communicate with my fellow human beings.

Back down to earth upon waking, the loneliness remained as I sipped coffee in my pajamas, standing on the hardwood floor of the empty kitchen. The kitchen is cold, the coffee is warm; the sun’s coming up, the day’s just begun, and you’re already bored.
Bored of cheering up, board of calming down, tired of clinging so tightly to the buoys of optimism that keep me afloat.
The hours stretch out vast before me, as they always do, and I hope to use them well, as I always do. Often I hope I can use them to write, but not much has been coming lately.
There are things I could write about—-things I could but I don’t, cause I’m afraid to. Maybe I shouldn’t be so afraid, though; maybe no one would read it anyway.
Except for you. I know you would.
Thank you.

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Happy Hour

I like it when you make me drinks;
Your concentration and precision,
The earnestness of your brow when you eye the jigger,
Your fascination with the elegance of ice spheres.
Whether it’s a classic Martini, a Negroni,
Or the White Russians you make
Just because I like them,
Your competence with adult beverages
Quite frankly draws me in,
And I like to taste the edge of the alcohol
While I watch you move around the kitchen,
Thinking of how glad I am
That it’s me you’re making cocktails for.
All this brings me to my point, which is to say:
Somewhere between sips of my last Gin and Tonic
As I watched you put the lime away
I realized that, these days,
I love you more than ever.




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Kaleidoscope

I want to be a kaleidoscope
An eclectic sparkling thing
All bits and pieces of beautiful;
Glinting shards and shiny baubles.
I want to reflect the light
And all that is good in the world,
Send it bouncing back out into the universe,
All shattered and shimmering.
I want to make no sense,
Except the sense you make
Of something too dazzling to fully understand;
A whirling chaos of beauty.
But in my efforts, I’ve learned:
There is a fine line between a kaleidoscope
And just a plain old mess.


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