In August 2010, I got a lap band and dropped 40 pounds. By Thanksgiving 2011, I was overfilled and unable to eat. I wound up in the ER and they took all the fluid out. I've gained the weight back and am disgusted with myself. I'm going back to my surgeon today to get another fill and I know I have a lot of explaining to do. I hope I can make it through.
I sleep all the time these days. It's as if I can't get enough and maybe I can't. I feel shrouded, covered in something I can't name and can barely fight. It's not depression. It's not anxiety. It's just this feeling of resignation that I don't like, and I don't accept, and I need and want to change.
The pleasure comes not in waves, but in stabs. The short,
sharp intakes of breath are punctuated by sensations of separation, of a
journey to somewhere else. It’s a patchwork of departure and return, of absence
Leigh is lying on her back, naked from the waist down. She’s
braless and wearing a t-shirt that says MIZZOU. She closes her eyes, then slits
them open, then closes them again, more tightly this time. Behind her eyelids
she can see spirals, a laser show of sorts. Her fingers find the head that is
between her legs and they squeeze, first lightly and then with increasing force,
feeling the skull that lies beneath the hair, the fragility of bone.
She thinks of demolition, the kind she saw just yesterday in
downtown. They were taking down a hotel, one that hadn’t hosted a guest in well
over a year. She’d paused on the sidewalk and watched the crane yawn and chew,
the construction workers stand idly by with their cigarettes, not even
acknowledging the destruction. Were you supposed to smoke at a demolition site?
Wasn’t there some risk involved?
By the time she was done watching, the crane was lowered as
if in embarassment. One of the smokers had put out his cigarette and was
watering the debris with a long orange hose. She felt a sick and sorry
fascination, a dull ache at the idea that at one minute something can exist and
the next moment can reduce it to nothing.
Sharp pleasure undercuts her thoughts. She bites her lower
lip, bites it hard. Brooke, she
thinks, lingering over the double o’s.
The head responds by moving faster, the tongue by making its movements even
more precise. Brooke, she thinks
again but for some reason doesn’t say. Instead she presses her fingers against
the head’s face, feeling – stubble?
Evan. It is her husband, Evan, who is going down on her. Her
husband of 13 years, her partner in life. Remember, Leigh? Remember?
The crane stood out against the bright blue winter sky. That
It's been two years since my buddy Oliver died. I miss him terribly and in a way it gets harder, not easier, every day. He was 21 and 3/4 years old when he died. He was robust as hell up until the end. Who could ask for more? But I do. I love you, Bear.
On Wednesday I'm going to see a friend. There's been a bit of a rift between us. No formal fights, just silence. Silence doesn't sit well with me when it comes to relationships. Things don't resolve themselves in a vacuum. And yes, I just relied on Blogger's spelling correct feature to figure out how to spell vacuum.
Basically, my friend can't figure out why I don't like this particular person. I don't like this particular person because I find them completely self-obsessed and self-serving. I'm not sure how much I'm going to be called upon to explain this and I'm not sure how much I'm even going to want to do that.
Fact is, who I like is who I like. I am so past the point of pretending. Why waste my time with people who I consider toxic to be around?
Then there is my friend. We have been friends for more than a decade now. This is pretty much the first point of confrontation we've ever had. I knew something was up and I was right. I barely heard from him when I was in Missouri and then when I came back it was silent, not even a welcome-back. Writing that hurts, actually. It pisses me off.
I usually try to use situations to illustrate themes, to look at a bigger picture rather than focusing on the drama. I'm sure there is a bigger picture here, but today I'm thinking a bit small.
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.