It seems like I eat perfectly well until I try to, and then I sabotage myself. Maybe if we do it together? How about we hold each other accountable? Are you in!?
The funny thing is, I am such a healthy eater. The darker green something is, the more I like it. Lean protein – I don’t really like red meat. I’m not and have never been into sweets – or sugar at all for that matter. I take my espresso with a splash of milk.
So why have I battled with my weight my whole life? Much of it is mental, I know – it’s depression, anxiety, eating to fill a void. More recently, though, it’s been “Oh, you want to make a conscious effort to eat well?!” THWARTED!!
Somewhere along the line, I lost myself. I lost the music, the art, the words – oh, the words! I never would have thought. Me. No imagination. No creativity. No inspiration.
There must be something terribly wrong. This is just not the way I am. This is just not me.
My life has changed – I have changed. What’s more, it’s not for the better. Life, age, responsibility, money – the fighting, the loving, the fighting. Oh, the fighting.
The hatred, the words, the hate – where does it come from? What have I become? Moreover, what has become of me? With all I have been, where have I gone?
Who am I?
I am in need.
With the sudden, unexpected loss of my mother’s partner in the early hours of this morning, I have been forced to step back and reconsider the frailty of life. Even with the occasional tension between the two of us (perhaps for the competition for my mother’s attentions) and my distaste for some of his mannerisms, he took wonderful care of my mother over their too-short chapter. He was a good man.
I had just seen him on Monday. Apart from the normal ailments of a man in his 60’s (and even lesser, given his rigorously physical work-life) and those of a smoking man whom would have benefited from a healthier lifestyle (that my mother tried to give to him), he had no complaints. I suppose what I mean to say is, even with the cigarettes and lackluster food-choices, he showed no overt signs of heart disease or extraordinary issues with his lungs (for instance, like my own father’s emphysema).
And yet still
last night he closed his eyes
and this morning he was no longer;
This is something that I have wanted to discuss for quite some time but have not felt comfortable approaching the subject. With a little Chopin and the resolve to change my life, I feel like it is something I now would like to talk about.
It’s a certain season and time of day that leads me to have unwholesome thoughts, and it is my car that gives validation to my impulsivity. Alone I fall victim to my thoughts, my only company apart the music – and sometimes not even that. Were it not for practicality doing its best to ground me, I would travel without end and with no destination in mind.
You see, it’s not a consequence of any consideration or planning, but rather an arrow on a brilliant sign set high above a highway on ramp that makes empty promises.
“Pick me – pick me!” screams the silent metal, horrendously loud, ringing in my ears.
Perhaps I have spoken about this topic before – I can’t recall – but I will again. And you can’t stop me. I mean, I suppose you could just click past my post, but then that wouldn’t be very nice now would it, hm?
When I was a child, I always thought I was most beautiful when I cried. I mean, yes, there is nothing like a child’s smile (I can see that now), but there is also something so beautifully compelling about a melancholic femme who so obviously bares the weight of many sorrows. At least to me, that is the sort of person whom I would like to get to know more about, to understand, and to analyze.
There’s nothing intriguing
about a cheerleader;
Now, I’m not insinuating that I had a bad childhood – actually, quite the contrary. The life that I was privy to was marvelous – don’t get me wrong. But inside of me there was always something wrong. I was always different. At a much younger age than my peers I thought about love, about mysterious adventure, about many things that a youngster should not comprehend.
I cannot recall
ever being innocent;
Depression is a funny creature. Just when you think you are in the clear, She sneaks up behind you and pulls you back in.
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot