Slanted Truths

I never feel warm and cuddly after someone rips one of my posts or calls me a troll but I suck it up.  I'm opinionated.  I can be abrasive.  Oh well.  No one is going to click with every bit of advice that is given, but if it is researched and well thought out I don't see why it shouldn't be given.  That advice may not be what you want to hear.  Hell, I usually find that the best advice is usually of the tough love variety.

Stuff you know but just don't want to accept.

Then there is the stuff that doesn't even have a shred of logic.  The easiest option out there.  Which do you think most are going to apply?  The easy one.  Cellulite cream, coffee grinds, grapefruit. . . . what is money and time when it means you don't have to do any work?

So people take it. Run with it (a la 'low fat' or keto w/o counting calories). 

And god forbid someone question the magical solution!  'Hater' 'Mean spirited' etc etc.

But that questioning is how fables get dismissed.  How one gets just that much closer to the harsh truth.  A truth that can lead to acceptance, change, and possibly success.

So I'll take it. Hate me. Bitch about me. 

But grow from it.  Maybe that means changing your perspective.  Maybe that means not repeating your myth.  Or maybe you could just get thicker skin.

Just don't let it fucking defeat you.

A brother in Scetis committed a fault. A council was called to which abba Moses was invited, but he refused to go to it. Then the priest sent someone to him, saying, "Come, for everyone is waiting for you". So he got up and went. He took a leaking jug and filled it with water and carried it with him. The others came out to meet him and said, " what is this, father?" The old man said to them, "My sins run out behind me, and I do not see them, and today I am coming to judge the errors of another." When they heard that, they said no more to the brother but forgave him.
                                                                                  - Desert Fathers

MyMaxwell* is dying. My dog, the most loveable, intelligent, and stable being in my life for the past 14 years. The little (I'm sorry, big) guy who used to play hide and seek with me, run into glass doors, and lie with me on my bed for countless hours when I was too depressed to leave my room, is dying.

I don't know what to do right now. I am flying out to see him on Thursday, but for the now, I am frozen. He is the only "person" who has never hurt me. Who has always been there. Always crying (no kidding) each time I "left" for school and barking with each return.

I really wish I could hug him right now.

* actually Maxwell Smart (sadly we never got him an Agent 99), but responds best to MyMaxwell..

If you want to read this journal please comment & tell me how you found it/who you are & I'll add you....

If there was a ledge, I would not jump.
I would fall.
Jumping would conote eagerness, energy.
In me there is only limpness, tired and defeated.

We used to talk about running miles, until the rain hit us on the last and we would collapse on the grass. Crying our ills until they had left us dry and cleansed.
Now I'm afraid. Afraid that if I started I might not stop. Or worse, that I could not cry. That this dread in my chest would stop me a mile in, its weight too much for me to bear.
The treadmill lets me escape. Continuous motion without action movement saves me from having to feel. No heart touching moments of human kindness to witness, no cute bunnies to cross my path, and no cars to get mad at when they ignore my right-of-way.
I'm not all avoidance though. I bridged the gap today. Yes, that means actually contacting someone outside of my speed dial. Still waiting, but fearful now. Fearful that she will still be breathing, just not conscious. Organs failing her, trapped in that hell between worlds.
And scared of seeing her like that. But, also scared of not seeing her. Of her being there, and me not. Of the fact that I am getting cold feet.
Unsure of where to be, what to do - I just sit and wait.

I traveled, I saw, and I experienced. Llamas on Incan streets, people who work harder than any I've ever known, ruins that have survived earthquakes, storms, and human disregard where others have fallen, and IVs and blood tests administered by a secretary over an alpaca blanket.

But in the 45seconds I had, I knew all of that was not what I would remember as defining my Summer 2005. All was unimportant in the long scheme. And, though it had changed me, those hours I spent with her meant worlds more.

Sitting there while she slept, knowing when those eyes looked at me that their were pages behind them. Pages her throat refused to allow. Her grip tight, strong despite her frailty. 'Family Feud' or 'General Hospital' in the background, not because either of us were particularly interested, but because we both knew that our own words couldn't say enough.

Then, everyday, she would do her dance, and I would push her down the long twisting hallway to her friends, who, though my stay was limited, she insisted on telling me of their first and last names. Unbelievably nice, the whole. Foreign Midwestern hospitality to an indifferent California girl.

I'll never forget the goodbye. Her hugs were inescapable. She couldn't turn her head, chew well, stand up, but her grip was tight as can be. Eyes wide in horror, because she knew. She knew what I denied. Face frozen in horror, mine sought to ease, smiling, saying next year, maybe even in a few months.

But she knew. And I fear she will be right.

It takes me a second to realize it isn't my alarm.

She is in the hallway, lost (as usual), speeding into heavy conversation before I've opened my eyes. I am to speak, she will listen.

I protest, call for timeout. For caffeine first. She says this is my only chance. One, two, three. Everything rushes out fast. A mile a minute. Unsure of my time, I just keep saying it. I love you. A slight gutteral voice is all that responds. I imagine her lying there, fear in her eyes, unable to talk, move, eat, and remember her strong hugs. The kind that hold you there, saying I'm not done.

Her voice is back on. Am I done? I answer yes. I'm not. I'm just too asleep to protest. The time too short, but would longer be any better?

It came to me again. I'd hoped the last was a fluke, a fear of my subconscious, but repetition worries. When I awoke it was pouring and the wind had blown my window shut. Protecting me. From the exterior that was my mood (truth?). I take my dreams very seriously, for they have been known to come true.
In it, you weren't there. Sounds simple, but he important thing is that you were supposed to be there. I called for help, a friend, an ally, anything. And you were simply busy. Wrapped in yourself, in the tangles of your job, in everything but the voice that was screaming your name.
My anxieties keep increasing. Will I make it? Can I make it? Are these rushed days more than just a build up, but really simultaneously the end?
Questions for another time. Right now, I just wanted to say that it hurt me. You know, you not being there and all. It hurt a lot. Don't use the context of it as my dream for an excuse. Dreams are not from a void. They are never empty. And this one said a hell of a lot more than I wanted to hear.

my heart is thumping
breath is climbing
but my throat is clear
the brain is a fear
and thoughts jumbled
stomach has rumbled
all stops
the clock locks
the whiteness blinds
the mechanism grinds
and i cry
and i try
to not want
to not get caught
again and again
forever, but then
i know i want to
and despite my shame
my lips are true
with no one to blame

not sad. well, yes sad, but other issue, for another time.
i'm just not here. can't visit the yellow sheets, but not entirely out of them. tears flood my head, pulsating against my forehead. my reason: unknown.
watched the nobodies with big names, faking interest in exchange for an excuse as to why not to work. it didn't work.
.
.
sometimes i don't even know why i post. the blankness of the page alongside my words is deafening.

She gave me an assignment. My gutteral first thought was a sarcastic (defensive?) "what, am I twelve?"

But then I thought about it. And thought. And for an intense few I was deafened by sadness that none appeared.

Then my mind struck on my circles. Well, actually figure-eights would be more exact, in the effort towards honesty. Not the normal kind, but in my driveway. On blades. Short distance, repetitive motion, but, for so many years my solace. Gawked at by neighbors and strangers alike who couldn't fathom why I didn't use rarely used street or even sidewalk, but I continued. Claimed I liked it better with my eyes shut, knew it so well. First the headlights as my spotlight when the night grew to dark, then later the motion detectors. CDs easily accessible for exchange in case my mood altered during my long, long skates.

Then I thought of the summer I spent in my room. Dark, with soft music and one cd. Here only one was necessary, and after I wore it out, its replacement became equally important. The imagined desparation ringing in his voice for his love Madeline, something to be patiently waited for as track by track filled my ears.

Years earlier it had been the guiltily eaten tombstone pizzas, while sitting in front of the colassal stereo, listening to the tape of a girl getting trapped in her tv. Must have heard it tens of times, all four tapes, sides a and b. Afternoon after afternoon. Her detestation of earwigs still rings in my head.

All these shared solitude. Not exactly what I feel the goal was, as most children's brightest moments are spent with others. In laughter. NOT in guilty eating, long periods of exercise driven by thoughts pertaining to the elusiveness of a proper sweat.

Sure there are others. The oddly shappen sandstone in the frontyard that Rachelle and I used to devise countless plotlines around. making it work station, crib, space station controller, and countless other imaginative a la a baby's first cardboard box. The stage where we did our performances, the barbies we designed soap opera lives for.

Later it was M and her insecure coolness, and irrationality that led us hunting plants from neighbors yards at eleven at night in hopes of making a love potion by midnight.

Spending the week at B's Truckee cabin. Roaming through the silver goods at a Mexican flea market. Watching boxing with the brother because it was the only thing on in English, in our stone floored hotel room. Going to my first concert and screaming my lungs out.

I can overanalyze them all. I want to. I want to cry, "but I was so much in my head." That I'm always in my head. But, like Kant's argument that the only thing we are sure of is our thoughts, I know I am not special here. I wish I were, but I'm not. The analysis won't happen. I'll let it go this time, if only for once. Shut it out of my head, cover my ears and scream a Mighty Mighty Bosstones' hit. Maybe from strength. Maybe from exhaustion.

"something to control" i concur. but i also must add the ever so necessary "so why is that wrong?". my grandma is dying and i am stuck at school, my mother is depressed and overeating, my mate still not found, supporter accessable by voice but not face, not to mention classes and work. so can't i have this? i need it. i need to see the adductors and abductors emerge from the flesh. abs emerge from the flatness but blahness of my stomach, and most of all, the hip bones and collarbone protrude in beautiful sharpness.
and i work diligently for it.
i won't lie and say i eat sub 1000 calories, but i will say i track everything and aim for a 40-30-30 split. i've done the weight watchers (too slow and alienated for my lack of obesity), the starvation, the zone, carbohydrate addicts, etc. and i am looking for a middle ground. so what if my middle ground includes losing weight. it is a zen in the midst of chaos. let me have it.

optimistic or just in denial? moods always difficult to decipher when under stress - which is all the time, thankyouverymuch. today turned circles for a wild 115 minutes then did leg lifts, hip lifts, and plenty of squats. still fat.

it's still there. i thought it was gone. that my only hope of running for an hour could be at 8min/mile pace. 7.98-8 (had to restart so no one took my machine)miles and one hour later. yes, your math is correct, 7.5min/mile. so happy i added 1.15 miles on stairmill (not stair stepper) and some bike work. baby, I'm Back.

everything was there, at the tip, waiting for release. the order was unsure, the outcome worrisome, but today no more. my backspace works after all. it erases those truths that begged freedom along with the others that can never be told when a picture of me exists alongside.

uncomfortable fullness. no matter that it is less than last week, that i have slipped (ran?) from the plan made me. 1600 to lose? i'm not stupid. since when has anybody accepted/trusted the US official take on calorie/food composition? any takers? if so, not sure you belong here. my mind is not friendly to those faux ideas. so what that i play gi jane nearly everyday, that i do so as icing to my own routine. is there jiggle? yes. should there be? no.
clarification complete.

my body is gone. my muscle, though felt, is hibernating in fat. The scale says I have lost a few pounds, no one knows, and I don't forsee saying it. They will worry, I will no longer be able to vent. I think one is speaking in tongues anyway. She eyes me carefully, speaking of pasts gone, but I sense presents are more likely. She knows my pain, but I need one who will help my want, hunger (ironic), and drive. The data says 13lbs to go, I shudder. Have I added that much to this sullied frame? I once WAS, now I am just space. Space where there should be none, space that needs emptying.

today i didn't run, spin, climb,or lift. nor do i feel like i have thought, felt, been, lived. i don't know whether to have emotions, be upset, anxious, go mad, etc. i just sit here, head tilted, fingers typing, mind running. sickness has prevailed another day. and though i still exist, i am not being. i'm so panicked that i'm silenced. i don't like this me. i don't want this me.
leave this me.