body/gratitudes

It's not quite the new year yet, but I don't believe in saving gratitude for the moments in which it is required, and tonight I'm so grateful for the things that have gotten me through this year that I am not going to wait a week to say, thank you.

First of all, to this incredible, physical body I have been given- I'm grateful to my eyelashes for growing back every time I tore them out, for my legs holding me up through shifts I thought I couldn't endure after days without food, my heart for simply surviving the hours-long panic attacks that made me feel like I was going to explode, my mouth for singing my lungs through the same attacks. I'm grateful to the cellulite and spider veins on my thighs that appeared along with the twenty pounds I desperately needed, and to my belly for learning to keep food down on a daily basis.

I'm also grateful to the teachers who were there at three in the morning with wisdom to offer when I needed it, and presence always, the ones who encouraged me and critiqued my work and taught me to stop trying to make things fit together into one simple whole and instead make multiple beautiful and different and complex things. I'm grateful to my grandparents for giving me a place to stay when I needed to get away, but only barely, and to my sisters for being awesome enough to miss, and to my parents for paying my therapy bills. And speaking of therapy, so grateful, so endlessly, eternally grateful to my therapist for pulling me through the darkest months of this year and helping me to cultivate real compassion for myself. Without her holding me accountable it would have been so easy to slip back into the person that I thought was myself, instead of accepting and growing into the person that I want to be and am actively becoming.

I'm grateful to the friends who had to leave for the time they had to give, and to the friends who stayed even though I am aware I was incredibly difficult to love. I'm grateful for the cheesecake on heartbroken days, the signed books, the couches to crash on, the miserably failed trips to the ocean, the late nights, the reblogged selfies, and all the other gifts those friends gave me. So many of those things were life saving without their knowing it, and nothing more so than the gift of their time and support and love.

(I'm also grateful to my partner for making me realize that a) I am not as smart as I think I am b) I am smarter than I realize c) there are a lot of incredible people and d) I care far too much about laws. I can forgive the puns in exchange for the hours of interesting conversation and the kind of overwhelming happiness.)

Every year I am grateful for the people and things in my life, if not to the extent that I am this year. But this year I'm not just grateful for what I have, but proud of who I am and what I have done.

I'm proud that I made the decision to change my life. I'm proud that I stopped taking medication, and I'm proud that I started drinking water and eating some food every once in a while. I'm proud that I managed to end my semester with a 3.6 GPA, and, more importantly, a confidence in my talents and passion. I'm proud of myself for learning how to anchor myself through mood swings, and for becoming a much better singer through my favorite grounding exercises. I'm proud of myself for writing beautiful things that I take pride in. I'm proud of myself for remaining a staunch sucker for falling in love despite the fact that I am terrible at it. I'm proud of myself for surviving experiences that I thought I would never get out of, and for learning how to use my anger to save myself and help others. Most of all, I'm proud of myself for learning to actively practice joy in my life, no matter how my mind is telling me to feel.

I'm just... proud. For the first time in my life, I am proud. I love the people I have been blessed with, and I am learning to love the body and mind that I have been given.

The Stars

Underneath the palm of her hand, Max’s heartbeat taps out a code that Anna can no longer decipher. She watches him, lying pressed between his body and the back of their suede couch. His accordion lungs push out against her hand, hard, hard, and then collapse, his familiar cough brushing her ear. She automatically rubs his chest until he relaxes, staring out into space over his head until his pulse becomes regular again, his soft snore filling the air. Her heart rate has not changed in the past hour, so different from the first few times they made love. Through the window across the room, the stars are shining onto the large hills that scatter the desert behind their apartment. When they first consummated their two-year relationship, two teenagers in the back of his car, he told her the soft blue glow of starlight on her skin made her look ethereal, almost a phantom underneath him (She had loved that he would use a word like that, without pretension, simply). Surely these are the same stars leaking into their living room now, and when she examines his face, he’s still the same boy, if a few years older. The scar that sits right below his lip remains exactly the size of her fingertip, the same crooked tooth barely visible as his lips soften in his sleep. Seeing him like this makes her uncomfortable; the sky is the same sky, Max is the same boy, and that leaves her the stranger in the room. She disengages herself from the tangle of his arms and legs, tiptoes across the beige carpet to find her clothes, and pulls them on. As she buttons her jeans, she glances back at him, draped across the couch. He looks almost confused to have his arms empty, even as she sleeps. She hesitates, but then turns away, takes her keys off the hook by the door, and quietly leaves.

***

Seth opens the back door almost before Anna’s knuckles hit the wood, and she wonders briefly if he was waiting for her to come. “I thought I was going to wake you up,” she says, hovering in the doorway. His eyes are fixed steadily on her, and she wonders if he is thinking about what happened the last time she came here. Nevertheless, he steps back. “No,” he says, gesturing for her to move past him into the kitchen. “I couldn’t sleep. What’s going on?” Anna takes a seat at the tiny table beside the shaded window, accepts the mug of coffee he hands her as he slides in across from her. “I don’t know,” she says, pauses. Her hand moves to the skin of her belly, stretched uncomfortably taut across her hipbones. “I feel like I’ve forgotten how to sleep with him beside me.” She avoids Seth’s eyes as she sips the coffee, feels the scorch of it on her tongue. She winces, then takes a longer gulp, the searing in her throat a stronger awakening than the caffeine. She shouldn’t be drinking this, and they both know it.

 Just as she wonders how much longer they will pretend, his voice breaks the silence. “Did you tell him yet?” The room is cold, and Anna wraps her hands around her mug, her eyes briefly closing with the warmth. “No.”

Seth leans across the table and wraps his hand around hers, rubs the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “Anna, I know you thought this would resolve itself. But you’re eleven weeks along now. Nothing is going to happen unless you make it happen.”

 “What the hell is that supposed to mean, ‘make it happen?’” Anna pulls her hands away, drops them back down to her stomach protectively. “You know me, Seth. You know how long I’ve wanted this. Besides, we don’t even know if it’s yours.” The words hang between them, glaring somehow more brightly than the light over the table. If it’s yours, reflected in his eyes as his jaw hardens, if it’s yours tapped in Morse code from her shaking fingers. If it’s yours, kicking somehow, imperceptibly, inside her. The pain and frustration in his face is enough for her to look away. “Anna,” he says, “Anna, we’ve been over this. How many nights did you even share a bed with him that month? And you told me, you two were always careful, and we…” he trails off, and Anna’s chest heaves briefly as she bites her lip hard. “I’m sorry. I just think you need to decide, if you’re going to tell him, or…” he gazes at her, expectant. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

 Stop it. Anna stands up, her shaking hands shoving her chair back. She comes around to his side of the table, bends down to catch his lip between her teeth, nearly aggressive in her kiss. He startles, pushes her away. He begins to shape a question with his lips, but she interrupts. “Please, stop,” she whispers, leaning in again. He hesitates, but she feels a sign of resignation as he exhales like autumn window against her lips. The taste wells up in her, and she feels tears bloom in her eyes. Eyes shut tight, she feels him grab her waist and lift her up. She wraps her legs around him, and pulls him in closer; he briefly stops kissing her, and his hands slide under her dress and up her thighs. She pulls it over her head, tugs his own shirt off as he comes down to the kitchen floor, laying her back on the cheap linoleum. Seth is lankier than Max, almost six inches taller, and when she winds around him, his body is still unfamiliar. She pushes into the bulge of his jeans, tries to help him as his fingers struggle with his zipper. Her fingers end up tangled into his, and a quick huff of frustration escapes his lips as he yanks and snaps the pull off. She helps his jeans the rest of the way off, grabs his arms and pulls him down with her. With Max, she is one person, and there’s a unity to their movement that is deeper than her physical senses. Now, she is acutely aware of the way Seth’s hands feel on her skin, not quite fit into the sides of her waist properly, his hips pressed awkwardly against her. As he pushes slowly into her, she drops her head back and focuses on the bruises they begin to plant on her inner thighs, and takes comfort in the pain. Through the slats of the blinds in the window, she can see the stars glowing through; the same stars, she thinks, as the ones that bore witness to her love for Max, those years ago. Their brothers and sisters died to keep the blood running through her veins, and she has squandered that gift. She tries to ignore them, to listen to the sound of Seth’s ragged breathing instead of the voices of the stars, telling her that she has six unanswered calls on her phone, and that with every moment she stays, her guilt increases tenfold. The sky, the child inside her; she and Seth are not alone, she is not alone, and the voices of all of them crowd into her mind- what are you doing here? What do you want? Who do you love? She focuses on Seth, the rhythm of his body, the way her fingertips stick to the thin layer of sweat over his shoulders, but she knows she will never be able to walk under the night sky again without being ashamed to look up.

***

 “God, Anna, your tits are amazing,” Joni sighs, gazing longingly at them. It is four hours and two bottles of wine into Max and Anna’s visit to his mother’s house, and both are longing to drive home. “I bet Max loves them, huh? Lord, what I would give to trade this fat ass in for those. Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” Max never asked Anna where she disappeared to that night, and she had been sleeping on the couch for nine days when Joni called to issue an invitation to stay the weekend. His gait has changed, something heavy in the slump of his shoulders like pain he cannot quite shake out. Still, she could not wound his pride by refusing to go, by asking him to enter his mother’s house without the security of his wife next to him. There is a quiet understanding that this is something that can happen only with her at his side. Anna cannot think of the last time she saw Joni without a drink in her hand, and every visit inevitably ends with Max silent and wounded by some comment about his similarities to his useless father. Nevertheless, he goes, always. For his final two years of high school he worked until two in the morning six nights a week, just to pay Joni’s electricity bills, and the exhaustion of that is buried somewhere deep inside him. Still, he goes.

 Joni is still fixated on Anna’s face, an eyebrow cocked. Anna jumps. “I’m sorry, I think the drive wore me out a little. No, no, of course I’m not pregnant, you know Max and I are waiting.” She can feel his eyes on her, but he says nothing, just forces a smile and takes her hand. “Mom, leave her alone,” he says. “She’s right, traffic was bad on the way up, you know, the usual weekend rush to get out of town…” Joni is paying no attention, pouring another glass of wine. “Mmhm. Your father called today, complaining about having to pay child support for Amber. Sixteen years old and he expects her to support herself, can you believe it? This is the bullshit that turns kids into strippers. His last girlfriend looked exactly like her, did she tell you? Fuckin’ pervert, I wouldn’t let Amber stay there weekends anymore, figures he would get it up more for his own daughter than for me.” Her voice is entering a gradual crescendo, as she tips her glass towards Anna. “Did I ever tell you about your husband’s miserable excuse of a conception? I swear to god, I didn’t even know Ray was starting before he was finished, ha ha ha, what a useless excuse for a man.” Max’s ears are tinged with red, and for the first time in weeks, Anna rubs his hand. Joni takes a long drink, and Anna thinks for a moment that she is finished. But, then…

“What about Max, Anna? How’s my boy in bed?” Joni sloshes a few drops of wine onto her white shirt, but doesn’t seem to notice it or the expression on Anna’s face. Max’s fingers tighten on hers, and he opens his mouth, but Joni interrupts. “No, no, let her talk, Max, this stuff is important, keep the relationship alive, huh? How’s he with his fingers?” She laughs, and Anna lets go of Max’s hand and stands up. “I’m sorry,” she bursts, “I need to use the bathroom.” She issues Max a silent apology as she fights the urge to run from the room, walking down the hall and shutting herself in the small bathroom next to the guest bedroom. Joni’s surprised silence in the other room is almost louder than her drunk vulgarities, and in the silence, Anna’s stomach churns. She wonders if the stress is beginning to get to her as she unbuttons her jeans and collapses onto the toilet, elbows on her knees, hands knotting into her hair. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she sees the blood staining her five-for-twelve-dollar underwear.

For a moment, she is frozen. Not this. Not again. The dread washes over her like a wave, leaving her drenched. She’s been here before, but last time, Max was beside her, his lips at her hairline, I’m so sorry whispered in her ear. Last time, there were tears. Now, she numbly reaches beside her to open the cabinet under Amber’s sink until she locates a pink makeup bag with a calendar poking out. She digs out a pad, puts the bag back, leans her head back and stares at the ceiling. After a few more moment, she stands, zips her pants, and walks back outside.

Thankfully, Joni has drifted off on the couch by the time Anna returns, and Max is staring at the floor. He looks up at the sound of her footsteps, then back over to Joni. “Thirty seconds tops, I swear, she fell asleep that fast,” he says. “I’m sorry.” “It’s alright,” Anna says. “Are you ready for bed? I mean, I would sleep out here, but if you don’t want her to…” she trails off, distracted by a sudden twist of pain in her belly, and he nods. “No, of course. It’s fine.” He stands, and Anna turns towards the bedroom. She pauses to lean against the door, pulling in a long, quiet breath to calm her heart, rushing with pain and dread. When she looks up, she realizes he hasn’t followed her. She looks back toward the living room, and he hesitates, then takes the afghan from the chair where he sits and drapes it over Joni. In the dimly lit room, the shadows on his face make him look twice his twenty three years, and Anna feels another pang, this one different. Something in her softens at the worn tenderness of his expression. Does he look at her like that when she is asleep anymore? Did he ever? When he turns, Anna does her best to smile at him, the expression awkward on her face. “Ready?” He nods, comes to join her, and pauses to kiss the top of her head before he walks past her to the bed and removes his shoes.

***

She remembers this, the flood, the incomprehensible loss. Max is at work on the fourth day of bleeding as something twists in her belly, but even still, she makes no noise as the ache renders her immobile, curled in the fetal position on the kitchen floor. For a moment, the thought of the hospital, of blessed pain medication, enters her mind, but with a sharp intake of breath she pushes it away. She deserves this.

***

The next morning, Anna finally drives to Seth’s house, not bothering to pull around the back to park this time. When he opens the door, she simply hands him the test she took this morning. The words are clear on the tiny screen: not pregnant. She’s always preferred the digital ones, the words always the clear dose of reality tempering her response to the results. Seth reads the two words several times, and when he finally looks at her, there is relief in his gaze. “Are you all right?” he asks, looking for some confirmation that his response is the correct one. “I mean, you didn’t… it wasn’t on purpose, right? It just… happened?”

 “It just happened.” The words are lead on Anna’s tongue, and she takes the test back, puts it in her pocket. “About three days ago.” Seth doesn’t ask her to come in, but his face is light, and his eyes search her face in confusion.

“Anna, this is good, you know? Why are you being like this? You said right at the beginning this would probably happen, that it would all work itself out. Now you don’t have to spend months worrying about one mistake.” “Shut up.” Something in Anna’s chest is creaking open, slowly, surely. He rolls his eyes, clear exasperation radiating off of him. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? But you knew we were fucked when this happened, it’s not like this was the plan. Besides, it already happened before. And this time, it’s for the best.”

Her entire body is shaking and tight with anger. “I know you didn’t want this!” she shouts, standing. “You wanted an out from the beginning, you wanted an excuse. You wanted me easy, some fucking warm, nice place for you to enjoy.” Her eyes are wet, but instead of tears, she leaks words. “Maybe this is some game to you, I’m just here to add some fun to your pathetic, selfish life, but I wanted a place to stay.”

 “A place to stay? A place to stay? Fucking hell, you know as well as I do that you were only here to make Max stay. Do you think I’m a goddamn idiot?” She takes a step back from him, vision blurring as he opens his mouth and then shuts it. “Anna, you don’t love me. You don’t even want the thrill of me. You’re just afraid he’s losing interest because you’ve grown out of the sixteen year old girl you still want to be. I don’t want you to have my goddamn children and you didn’t want mine either, how many hours did you spend rationalizing the thought that maybe, just maybe, it was his? How many hours, Anna?”

 Something in Anna’s chest collapses in defeat, a shrinking inside of her. “I didn’t care if it was his or if it was yours,” she whispers, hugging herself as she looks at the dusty doormat at the back door. “Only that it was mine.” He doesn’t answer, doesn’t ask her to stop when she turns away. She unlocks the door to her car and gets in, and when she turns to look out the window, he has already shut the door.

***

When Anna arrives home, Max is asleep in the living room. She kneels beside the couch, rests the side of her face on his leg. He makes a small noise, starts up. It takes him a moment to process her presence beside him, and seems almost bewildered to see this woman sitting on the floor of his living room. “Anna?” A long, shuddering breath breaks from her, and she reaches up to wrap her arms around him. He comes down to the floor to meet her, curls himself around her and pulls her to his chest. She doesn’t bother with speech at first, just presses herself close to him until the trembling of her body slows to match the beat of his heart against hers. He’s patient, doesn’t repeat his question, just holds her and hides his face in her neck. She feels a slight tremor in his hands, and hears his breath catch for just a moment, but then he is steady again. “Anna,” he murmurs, and she rights herself to look into his coffee-brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, and like a flood the words finally come tumbling out. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” The words echo, over and over on her tongue. “I need to tell you so many things,” she says, and the thought of all the unspoken conversations between them begins to crowd her head again. She clenches her fists, pounds her thighs as she drops her head down onto her knees. “Fuck, Max, I have so many things…” Max takes the side of her face in one hand and lifts it to face his. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”

***

They hold hands as they walk through the park. The sky is turned indigo, save for a few peach streaks along the horizon, and the stars are beginning to peep out- just a few, just enough to remind her that she can breathe, here, that this galaxy will go on no matter what choice she makes in this moment. The sprinklers are on, shooting white arcs of water across the cold, thick grass, and the hissing sound opens something inside her chest. She is grounded, she is here, just for a moment the fog in her head disappears and all is still and bright inside her, even as the dusk deepens. Max notices, gestures out. “Go run through them,” he says, and she gazes at him for a moment, wondering if he’s serious. He quirks an eyebrow, smiles, nudges her. “Go on,” he repeats. She hesitates. “No,” she says, the word reluctant on her lips. “It’s too cold.” Later, she’ll wish she had done it, will ache to have gone running, ripping through the evening, letting the icy bite of the water hit the wall of heat that is her soul. She’ll wish she had dragged him with her, just to see the little boy who looks through his eyes smile when her hug soaks him through. For now, she looks up, slips an arm around his waist, and keeps walking.

november

I wish so much that I could share with you the light that floods over me now, as I sit on this back porch and listen to the birds chattering in the trees, leaves turned gold in the setting sun. Somehow this sunset glows brighter than the warm, early autumn afternoon that preceded it, and the silver rim of my teacup glints every time I raise it to my lips. It is enough.

Everything is vibrant and full, from the new thick sea of rye grass to the honeysuckle bushes that hold lizards and finches and the occasional cat. There are remnants of jasmine on my lips, my nail polish cracked but just clinging to the edges of my nail beds, my body is so in contact with the things of this world that when the final rays of light slip over the garden wall and fall to rest on my skin, it is almost a lovemaking. The relations of my body to this earth are enough; even absent the baby's laugh, lover's scent, shared alliances of a three AM dialogue, my breath, lungs, ears, eyes, they have everything they need to take in- and how, then, the joy bursts forth when any other earthbound body happens into contact with my own. My world is not mine, and yet it is crafted with me in mind, as I have been crafted for it, and here on this wicker lawn chair I am the puzzle piece that has been called for in this moment. It is enough.

Somewhere, you, too, are aligned with this earth, your skin baked in my sun, eyes full of my sky, and somewhere, where the soul meets the world, is your breath, and when the two collide- oh. It is enough.

Writing To Heal

When I was ten years old, my parents adopted a seven month old little girl from South Korea. I was ecstatic; my only other sibling, also a sister, was a mere eighteen months younger than me, and I had no memory of her babyhood. I looked forward to dressing the new baby up in the outfits we had been collecting since the adoption agency sent us the first picture of her. I was convinced that I would be her favorite sister, that we would share a close bond I had with no one else, and that our family would be exciting and made new with the addition of a small child. I was right about most of these things, but I was in no way prepared for the rest of the reality of adoption. 

My sister had been in a foster family from the time she was ten days old until she reached the age of seven months. Then, in a space of three days, she was taken from them, placed on an airplane, and sent to our family- away from the mother who had raised her and two older foster brothers. We were unprepared for the struggles that arose from her trauma. At ten years old, I did not fully grasp why she had night terrors, why she refused to let my father touch her, and why I couldn’t asleep anymore because of the constant sound of her uncontrollable crying. As the months wore on, our family relationships deteriorated until eventually I was unable to handle the extreme amounts of conflict and anger in my house.

I turned to fantasy. My parents were conservative, and gave me next to no chances to read realistic fiction as a child that may have alerted me to the fact that my home life was not, in fact, entirely normal. I had no books that dealt with the battles I was fighting at home, sadness for my sister, resentment for my parents and their punishment of her grief. Instead, I had other worlds to escape to. Hogwarts became my home; the Inkworld my secret hiding place, and my adventures nearly always took place in Narnia. 

These books were not enough. When I was seventeen, I had stopped eating; I dropped from 120 pounds to only 91. And then one day, my best friend introduced me to two books: Wintergirls, by Laurie Halse Anderson, and Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher. She didn’t know it yet, but I was fighting deeply suicidal thoughts at the time. After being sexually assaulted and struggling for nearly five years with what was later diagnosed as an undetermined personality disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, and generalized anxiety, there was too much holding me down in my own world for me to be able to escape anymore. As I read more and more of these books, books that spoke frankly of eating disorders, mental illness, deep depression, I began to recognize myself in these fictional characters. Later, I found Anderson’s book Speak. As a victim of rape, the brief but succinct description of Melinda’s assault almost seemed to break me all over again, but as I continued it brought something else, a slow but thorough kind of mending. 

The power of writing to heal is one of the most remarkable things I have observed in my (admittedly brief) lifetime. I have spent my entire life writing poetry, short stories, the beginnings of a few novels, and plan to spend my life teaching others how to do so, but my primary goal in writing is to save myself. And this is important, because I know now the impact one person’s words can have on their reader; it can, quite literally, save lives. I know, because it saved mine.

baby's breath

I am already in a drugged fog as I unlock the door to the house where I used to spend my childhood holidays. This is no longer unusual for me; I’ve grown accustomed to the velvet buzzing that fills my head on a nearly hourly basis these days. Tonight, however, my hands tremble as I twist the key, and it takes me three tries to remember the trick to getting the door open. The quiet thumping in my chest has turned begun to rattle my entire body by the second attempt, my body tense, waiting to see his headlights come around the corner. I forgot to leave a light on when I left. Stupid bitch, I curse myself. Should have remembered. Or better yet, should have stayed home, safe in the cave of your bedroom.

The house is abandoned tonight, and only shadows greet me. Only shadows, and yet something else makes me uneasy, something darker and deeper than the blackness of the unit hall. I feel my palms sweat, and turn into my makeshift bedroom, locking the door. I turn the light on, then change my mind, despite my fear, and shut it off. There are fresh, open wounds in my being, and after weeks of being hunted, I want to curl up in the quiet night to lick them.

I pull my clothes off, and the majority of the predator’s reek along with them. I turn down the blanket on my bed, and when my bare skin hits my jersey sheets, a new scent fills my head. Blood. I don’t need the light to see the stains. I am left with nothing but ruined sheets, and somewhere miles away, his are wet only with pleasure. Something in my stomach kicks. People speak of feeling phantom limbs after the real ones are gone- what about phantom fetuses? I put my hand on my graveyard of a belly, and I know who gutted me. There is a large hollow to fill, and I slant my blinds open just enough to let a sliver of moonlight in. Illuminated in it I find exactly what I need; a slim orange bottle half filled with white tablets like flower petals. My hands shake and tip the bottle over too far, spilling all of the contents into my cupped palm. I mean to return all but two milligrams, but somehow in my hand the petals arrange themselves into blossoms of baby’s breath. I freeze, staring down at them.

The next time I feel the stirrings behind my navel, something in my chest snaps, and my lips break apart as I tip my head back and pour, pour, pour the pills into my mouth. They instantly begin to blossom, stale and almost lemony on my tongue, which is frozen, unwilling to swallow and silence itself. I am curled in a ball in the nest of my sheets, a naked, broken baby bird, when I see her. She walks out of the darkness of my closet and climbs into bed with me, fits herself against my back, the woman who has not slept here with me in almost three years now. She gently reaches around, takes the bottle with the remaining seeds of quiet inside it, and whispers in my ear, plant them. And I do.