The Impact of 24 Hours and a Winter Sunrise

“At some point, you gotta let go, and sit still, and allow contentment to come to you.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

 

There’s beauty in waking up to face the mundane day ahead. There’s zen in the taking of a shower and doing my hair for work. A pleasure in making a sandwich for lunch, and grabbing fruits and veggies too. There’s serenity in listening to the dogs yap as I make my way out the door and drive down snow covered roads. There’s beauty in watching the sun come up, even if I’m on my way to work.

There’s no shame when I wake up these days. There’s no guilt from what I’ve done the night before. There’s just this sense of calmness that comes over me and let’s me know that I’m blessed to be alive. I’ve got 24 hours to make an impact. 24 hours to change a life, even the only life I change is my own. I’ve got 24 hours of reprieve from a disease that would like to kill me.

You know what I love? Not having one damn bit of drama in my life, and knowing that I am loved.

Who am I?

While I was in treatment I was given Recovery Workbook by my one on one therapist. There were many sheets on which to detail the progression of my disease. When I was in active addiction I would try to write, …

You Do Not Need Me

I was 15 when I kissed him for the first time. He had Freddy Mercury’s lips and I watched as he dove in to kiss me. We were lying on the grass that covered the top of the crypt in the cemetery in the middle of town. We had barely met and spoke but a few words, but I knew I wanted him. My young body woke to the sound of his voice, a deep and soft growl that told me he wanted me.

I heard crickets in the distance as he kissed my trembling lips. I knew there were no seeums crawling on my skin as he covered my young body with his. Instinctively my legs opened and wrapped around his skinny waist. He covered my mouth with kisses. His hands reached up under my shirt and expertly squeezed my left nipple. My body arched towards the stars and I moaned the sound of my Neanderthal ancestors.

You’re my one and only, he lied.

I’ll always be your girl, I lied back.

He wrapped his arms underneath my shoulders and ground himself into me. I moaned again knowing that this feeling was fleeting. I knew he’d never belong to me. I was too fiery for him. Too empathetic.

His hands reached into my hair while he pulled my jeans down. With my sex exposed, he pulled himself from his jeans and filled me. I screamed like a banshee into the star filled night and told him that he would always belong to me.

When he was spent he helped me back into my clothes. I reveled in the scent of him and the fullness he left inside of me. The inside of my thighs were bruised, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was him, but he left me there, on the cold grass filled with his nectar.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. The kisses on my lips, the tongue in my mouth, the fullness of him inside of me while I cried out into the starlit night. He was my everything, my first love and he always will be.

It’s been 35 years and I can still feel his hands on me, and in my hair. His whispers in my ear as he entered me and the guttural sounds he made when he filled me.

I’ll never forget him, and I know he’ll never forget me either. He’ll always wonder what might have been, and so will I. I will move on in this life of mine. I’ll brave new adventures, while he remains stagnant and mourns for me.

Somewhere Only We Know

I walked across an empty land

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand I felt the earth beneath my feet

Sat by the river, and it made me complete

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting tired, and I need someone to rely on

I came across a fallen tree

I felt the branches of it looking at me

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go

Somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know.

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need someone to rely on So tell me when you’re gonna let me in

I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go?

Somewhere only we know

Somewhere only we know

Kiss Your Own Fingertips

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love myself.

To look at myself in the mirror and see beauty instead of flaws.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To touch my flabby and cellulite covered skin and not hate it.

To rub my own feet with thick lotion and not wish that the heels were softer.

To hold my hips and wish I could remove all of the fat inside of them.

To trace my wrinkled hands across my ample breasts and hope that someday a man will behold their beauty again.

To gaze at my face in the mirror and not see wrinkles, but amaze at the brightness of my blue eyes and the perfect symmetry of my lips.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To find that little girl that resides inside and tell her that she’s going to be okay.

That she is loved.

That she is free.

That she is important.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself, but I do hope in time I’ll be able to again.

Memories From a Little Girl in a Plymouth Duster

We traveled home late one night down Southbound US-23. I sat next to Mom in our mustard yellow Plymouth Duster, and did my best to try and sleep. The black sky was spitting snow at the headlights while the heat vents blew warm stale air onto my face and chest. It was warm enough in the car, but I used my long winter coat as a blanket. Sis was asleep in the backseat and I envied the ease in which she could sleep just about anywhere.

I could feel the thick, hard vinyl of the mustard yellow seat as I shifted my weight and tried to drift off. The seat was anything but comfortable, but I liked riding up front with Mom.  The radio was playing low and the AM dial glowed in the dark. Mom listened to the late night news on WJR which I have to admit even at an early age, scared the heck out of me. Maybe it was the staccato rhythm of the announcers voice or the sound of the teletype and the occasional beeping that signaled the end of one segment and the beginning of another. It seemed that the news was always bad.

There was a murderer on the loose in another state that I was convinced was going to show up at our front door. There was disaster somewhere in the world and my mind would race with thoughts of could it happen here in my state, or the city I lived in. The stories of missing children, of wars in other lands, of leaders that would kill their own people. Even at the young age of eight, I felt that the world would never be safe for me. Maybe it was because my parents were divorced and my daddy wasn’t there to protect all of us, I don’t know.

Mom’s family was located on the west side of the state. When she married my father she pulled up stakes and moved away, but our homes were always pretty close to the highway. She loved my dad, but not in a traditionally romantic way. Dad wasn’t her Prince Charming, he was her best friend. He offered security and unconditional love and the escape from the abuse she had experienced her entire life. I don’t ever remember living with my dad, which is kind of sad.

Maybe the anxiety that I experienced at such an early age wouldn’t have been so devastating if Dad had been there to fight the monsters in the closet, or under the bed. Maybe he could have quelled my fears from the horrible news stories I heard on the radio and t.v., but maybe not.

After all these years of dealing with a backwards fight/flight response, I’ve come to realize that it’s pretty much how I’m wired. Therapy and a good anti-depressant/anxiety medication have made my life better, but there’s the little girl in me that still wishes for my dad. My parents’ divorce wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I’m sad it happened all the same.

Sometimes, I wish I could take the knowledge I have now, and go back to being that little girl trying to sleep on that crappy colored vinyl front seat, and tell myself not to fear life. To not fear the unknown sounds in the walls, and not fear the darkness of my bedroom, to not fear whether or not I will be liked or loved, and to not fear being alone. There are so many things in the world to fear, but there is so much more to be experienced and enjoyed.

Friday Fictioneers-In the High Heat of Summer and Blood

In the heat of summer, we began cleaning my deceased great grandmother’s home. Heavy with pregnancy, I pulled the old shoes from the bottom of the armoire. I felt overwhelmed by the chore and my grief of losing her before Adam was born. Sweat slid down my swollen belly as I filled the first box of many. Old shoes were easy to throw out, but what about the the other antiques? The baby kicked while I worked. Then the nosebleed began. Blood poured down my shirt and the old shoes. Distressed, I pinched my nostrils, and ran outside for relief.

100 words exactly!

Genre: autobiographical, memory, hell I don’t know.

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. I’m happy as heck to be inspired to write again. I’m hoping that this priming of the pump will cause the words and stories to flow for me again. Dear Readers, please go to Rochelle’s site to read all of the entries.

Have a terrific day!

To Remember touch More than Thought

“I remember that feeling of skin. It’s strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.”-Lucy Christopher

My pulse quickened as Matt enclosed his left hand around my right. The intimacy of his actions brought a blush to my cheeks. Confused, I wanted to pull away but I craved the contact. Instead of retreating, I allowed his hand to engulf mine. My mouth went dry, as his thumb repeatedly caressed the palm of my hand.

I yielded to his touch, my heart slowed its thready beat, and I allowed myself to enjoy the closeness of my dear friend. He asked for nothing but my hand. He told me he loved me and how glad he was I came into his life. We grew silent, as his thumb continued to make lazy circles on my palm.

His was the first intimate touch I’d felt since I’d become sober. It wasn’t a sexual touch. I wasn’t sure how to label it, and honestly, I didn’t care to. In that five minutes, I felt more protected and loved than I had in a long time.

With our hands clasped, my friend silently asked nothing of me, but to love every broken, raw and damaged part of him. And in return, I asked him to do the same for me.

A Letter of Forgiveness

‘Let us be willing to release old hurts.’- Martha Smock

Dear Renee,

The last three years have been especially harrowing, yet you’ve persevered. I always knew you were  a strong woman.

I want you to forgive yourself for the last ten years of drinking. I want you to love and accept yourself and know that you are a beautiful spirit.

You are not your past, and it does not need to define you. Your future and your community are the sober people, the perfectly broken.

Your children love you. The longer you are sober, the more their trust will return.

Do not look for love until you can find it within yourself.

Go to meetings.Work with a sponsor. Keep busy. Dive into work and become a stellar employee again.

Be kind to yourself and know that you alone are enough.

Let go of your past. Let go of love that is not evenly returned and move forward.

Find peace.

Find joy.

Find love from within, and the brilliance of it will flow to everyone you encounter.

Forgive yourself, and put your trust in the future.

Love, Renee

(This is a letter I wrote to myself the last night of my stay at the Brighton Center for Recovery. My addiction counselor told me to save doing this section of my homework after everything else was done. I read it to my community the day I ventured out of the Brighton Bubble into the sunlight of new future. I’ll  share of my journey when the time is right. For now, I have another story brewing about a wheat farmer and his wife. I hope to post it soon. This girl is getting her sparkle back for sure. Thanks for following me on this journey.)

There but for the grace of God go I

I saw her this morning and I know she saw me. She was holding a Speedway Pizza and 44 oz. soda, but it was only 9:45 in the morning. I tried not to pity her, this pasty white young woman with a horrible diet. I could tell by her unlined skin that she was in her 20’s, but the weight made her look older. She wore Capri jeans and a bulky t-shirt and was sweating at the effort it took her to walk to her vehicle. She set the items down on the hood of her powder blue mini-van coated thickly with dust from what I presumed was the dirt road she lived on.

I could tell she wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. To blend in with the pavement and her powder blue mini-van. Just unlock the door, take her food and make her getaway to consume her poison in peace. I didn’t make eye contact with her, but I wanted to. I wanted to hug her and tell her I knew how she felt. That I hated food because the shittier it was for me the better it tasted. I wanted to tell her that I too was an addict that wanted to lie in bed and consume all the best and worst foods and die in a caloric avalanche. Instead, I said nothing, because she probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.

I walked into Speedway and purchased an unsweetened iced tea with lots of ice. I shared pleasantries with the cashier while I made my purchase and tried not to loathe the way I looked in my tight yoga pants and tank top. All 265 lbs. of me turned and walked out of the store and to Eddie the Wonder Dog waiting in my car. As I walked, I felt the constant pain of what felt like a pebble grinding into my left heel. Another pain I have to deal with because of obesity. I swear to you every pain I feel, both physically and mentally is because of this fat boundary that I’ve built around me.

Once in my vehicle, I glanced through my side window at the mini-van woman. There she was downing a soda, and eating her first slice of pizza. My heart hurt for her, well, for both of us really. Why was it that women like she and I struggled so, while other didn’t seem to? I reached down and started my car, turned to hug my Eddie Dog and then put the car in reverse. It was time to go home and measure out the portions of my morning meal, a hard-boiled egg, 1 cup of skim milk, 3/4 cup of protein cereal, and piece of fruit.

I’m determined this time, not only to make the diet stick, but to remain healthy. That’s the ultimate goal really, to wake in the morning with less physical and mental pain. To look forward to picking out healthy food and fun clothes to wear. To be able to run again, if I want to. Or swim, bike, or maybe even date. Who knows what the future holds for me? All I know is I don’t want my weight deciding my future for me, I want to be the master of my own fate.