choose to stay

It’s been well over a week since I last chewed any fat, and I attribute this to many things, not the least of all is that slippery, gaudy attention whore called life. Even though it is a beautiful day here and the garden is calling to me—I continued reconstruction of wall sections yesterday, and will try to finish a better part of it today—I wanted to put some words down that reflected my recent head space, an attempt to articulate how “all my thoughts are jumbled into some crazy state of grace,” to borrow a phrase from Melissa Ferrick.

I jumped into this blog with the intention of exploring some of the n’er before seen reaches of my struggle with weight loss and weight issues in general, and initially so much came so fast that I could’ve blogged two, three times a day. Last Friday, that is, two Fridays ago now, I was talking to a good friend about this process, and relayed a shit ton of “revelatory” information in a relatively short time, to which she calmly replied, “that’s some heavy shit.” Yes, yes it is, a whole ton’s worth.

Through all of last weekend and into the work week, and even today, I’ve been reflecting on that conversation. I’ve heard the words “heavy shit” in my head and visited the memory of said friend taking a long draw off her Stone Pale Ale right after she said it, the pause that ensued, the way she tapped her smoke before lighting it, then inhaled deeply, like a heavy sigh. Similar to a Jarmusch film, our conversations are often riddled with silences. She weighs her words carefully with me, knowing that I chew them fully and digest slowly.

“It seems like you’re on a roll,” she says finally.

“I wouldn’t say roll,” I reply. “Just opening up a bit, shedding my papery skin in the light of longer days.”

I think that’s an approximation of what I actually said. I was drinking on a fairly empty stomach and remember finally ordering a hummus plate for gnoshing, something to soak up the ale.

Whatever the metaphor, I did feel a little like I was waking up from some long, fitful sleep, some decades long nap. A little Van Winkle-esque with Sleeping Beauty in a supporting role. There were little things: writing about anorexia and then spending a good 10 minutes—which felt like 10 hours—looking at my body naked in the dresser mirror, even going so far as standing on the bed so I could see the entire picture. Imagining the fat giving way to skin stretched tight across hip bone, pelvis. Thinking, I’ll take something in between this and that. It had been more than five years since I’d looked –really looked – at my body in that way or anything even close. Or contending with the hangover-like feeling I got from writing the piece on going to my grandparent’s house in Dayton and the life-altering fight that would rock our family for years to come – I felt off kilter for a couple days after shaking out that particular rug, which may have been the result of dredging up hard memories, choking on all the long-dormant dust or the soul-shaking cry that occurred right after I posted those words. Hell, maybe a combination of all three. Probably more, though, probably more than I will ever consciously realize.


The point is, this is work. This is why I’m here, why I choose to come back, why I will keep digging and poking and shedding those papery skins—like the creamy white daffodils in our front bed this morning, just blooming—with the hope that what remains is beautiful and whole and long lasting. These places I choose to revisit and analyze aren’t often pretty when I first get there. I’m in this for the long haul rehab, knowing that there are treasures to be unearthed behind every painted-shut door. I’m not interested in the fix and flip, the glance and the look away for fear that looking too long might reduce me to straight-jacket land.

But. Like I said, this is work. And sometime I need a vacation. I think I just took one, and I’m back in one piece, ready to peel back another layer of paint. I’m sure there will be these gaps in my processing, those times when I have to take a step back, check out, lay in the sun for a spell and drink faux margaritas (real ones will take me into the over-points stratosphere) and nibble on pretzels. No checking in, no obligatory entries. Just me tending to what I’ve already planted, what has been exposed and needs patching. One thing at a time. I think weight loss isn’t just about losing pounds--it’s about gaining perspective.

And about choosing to stay.