Stretch.

I have stretch marks on my belly now from the thirty pounds of emotional trauma that cooed me to sleep at night after my grandmother's death. I weigh compulsively at Wal*Mart when I get a chance because I threw out my bathroom scale (except for the balance scale I keep under my sink-just incase). I have been going crazy lately on Whole 30. They say if you want to lose weight you should not go on this eating plan. I do not know who "they" are, but "they" seem to always have something destructive to contribute and are rarely out for my benefit.

 I would write a book about this period of my life if I thought it would contribute to something greater than myself. When I was a little girl all I wanted to do was write. I used to be ballsy about it too. I approached poetry like I was the only one who knew how to do it. Then Christ "humbled" me. But, you know, the truly difficult thing about Christ "humbling" you is that you never really know if it is actually Jesus or hopelessness invading the crawlspace of your little house. Hopelessness-the breath consuming intruder that overcomes you like mustard gas before you realize it ever seeped in. You think they would make a grout strong enough to still the seeping. But I have not found it yet. 

 I bet I have written a book in my life time (aside from the obvious line of poetry anthologies that never stop composing themselves). I write every day. It is the one thing I cannot not do. I read in a blog once that feeling as though writing is your breath is the biggest cliche of all. I suppose I am the biggest cliche of all. Because I actually feel that way. I want to write so much it hurts. I just feel insurmountably hopeless about my dreams, talents and gifts. 

 Once upon a time I was loved by a boy. I was loved by a boy who enjoyed my writing very much. I was loved by a boy who enjoyed my writing so much he bound me a poetry anthology just so I could say I am a published writer. 

 Maybe that was my supernova moment-Christmas with my beloved. The evening he gave me "Pride and Prejudice". Jane Austen has ruined a lot of lives.

 If I were writing a book to read in the bathtub it would be about how I never seem to be able to be still enough to enjoy a nice bath. I never feel pretty enough for bath fizzies and romantic elixers, sexy underwear-"just to make myself feel like a woman". I feel like Shrek...Princess Fiona at best. But even at my thinnest I never felt worthy. Due in large part to the hopeless camper beneath my rug-covered crawlspace. 

 I may never experience a real day in my life devoid of sadness.

 And it seems no matter how large my body becomes--I am still not big enough to hold it.