Growl

So I am officially venting. And perhaps by doing this, I will uncover the true source of my annoyance right now, i.e. why I feel like telling the world (and Weight Watchers) to go fuck themselves.

When I was younger, the punishment rarely fit the crime. At age 11, I was grounded for three weeks for saying the world "damn" to a teacher who benched me during kickball. "Go sit on the bench," he said. "I don't want to sit on the damn bench," I replied. By the time I got home, the bastard had called my mother and told her about the incident and I was in deep doodoo. Three weeks, no phone, t.v. or outings.

The thing was, I knew I had been a mouthy little twerp. Had my parents chosen to talk my reaction through with me, I could have expressed to them my disappointment in myself. I also could have relayed to them why I had been asked to sit on the bench. The details are hazy now, but it had something to do with being called out when I believed I was safe, and how bummed I was when I was told that I was, indeed, out. I argued. It's what I knew to do. It's the family way. Arguing did not go far with my teacher, however. I was told to sit on the bench. My mouth, then, got the best of me.

It has always been thus--girl with wickedly advanced vocabulary (for her age) gets pissed and a stream of invectives pours from her mouth. So damn isn't polysyllabic, but I remember being awfully fond of bombastic and magnanimous when I was a fourth grader. I relished those contexts in which I could pepper my language with words I'd only read or overheard then looked up in my family's gigantica oxford unabridged.

Today I confessed to some slippage behaviors on the WW boards. One person in particular decided that it was time to be "stern" with me because I was talking of cheese eating (ooo the full fat kind!) and had mentioned something about maybe taking a day off a week, a la body for life, just to see how that goes. Truth be told, I know exactly how it would go...poorly. To shit. Down hill. But I posted it anyway, just to see what others thought. And in return, I got "It's time to get serious because I know you want this."

Wait. Wait wait wait. Serious? Time to get WHAT? I AM serious. Inner dialogue with poster: I am bigger than you have ever been. You have no idea how hard it's been to even get here. The shame I carry. The weight of history and genetics. The depression battle. The life long illnesses. The abuse. The addictions. Wait. Am I still not worthy?

Pity is a stupid emotion, but I'm in the wellspring of it now. It's pouring from every orifice. Serious? If only I could mic my daily inner hate monger and then you'd see serious. There's not a shred of laughter tucked within this fold of belly, no skein of self-love that will suddenly appear to hoist me from this fat bitch. I've been eviscerated for years and now it's all just rot--some days, I can't even stand the smell of myself.

I eat that cheese and that cracker and a little more of me is lost to rot. I feel the dried parts dropping away. My heart gets harder, shows signs of breaking. Long ago, a stiff wind blew through and my lungs were carried far far afield. These hands--they type all day, every day, and yet they are not nimble enough to sew me back together, not strong enough to carry hope for as long as it takes to be whole again.

Yeah, maybe I'm not serious. Maybe, in the final analysis, there's just not enough left to save.