Day 8- Dream Catcher

My dreams are violent, morbid and often reoccurring. Rarely do I have a dream of sunshine and puppies, celebrations and successes.

A friend shot in the neck through a screen door.

My mom ran over by a train.

My two youngest children have gone missing.

Panic stricken, anxiety-ridden dreams that have me out of breath, crying in my sleep, crying when I wake. What a mess.

I suppose I could have lied and said that my dreams are infinite in their glitter and unicorns. But I’m just not a very good liar.

My dreams are a constant reminder of how my anxiety and depression seep into the recesses of my brain.

Even when it feels as though I am conquering it all, my dreams are there to remind me how fucked up my sub-conscience remains. Damn it, I try so hard. You know, think good thoughts, think good thoughts.

I do. I swear it. How can these dreams be when my soul is happy, my spirit is grateful? I don’t want to catch these dreams. I want to send them straight back, like bats out of hell, to where they came from and shout that I won’t stand for the infiltration.

I won’t stand for trying and seeking goodness, and wanting to BE goodness only to have to surrender unwillingly in the night.

 

Day 7- The Rocket-ship

I imagine a rocket-ship that has one-way travel to a kinder place.

A place where we don’t need to explain how black lives matter, why transgender people and immigrants make us great and why the poor deserve equal access to education and resources as the millionaire high on the hill.

This same rocket-ship takes me away from my dysfunctional relationship with my ex-husband and children’s father-away, quickly. Grappling with emotional weariness is daunting, at best. Escape is often the most reasonable solution in my head.

I won’t lie: I have contemplated irrational escape…as a teen, as a mother, as a wife. There’s disappointment in realizing there is no rocket-ship to take me away. Disappointment that this life requires work often without reward, compassion without reciprocation, consideration while doors are closing in your face and the driver in the next lane cusses you out….

I’m tired. I know so many people who are tired, weary, depleted…there is no rocket-ship.

Somehow, we have to learn to fly, and to fly right, on our own.

Day 6- Eye Contact

This was a really tough word prompt for me…..

 

She made sure their eyes met. After all, she had a point to prove.

A defining moment, confirmation she was being heard yet questioning if she was understood.

Averting her gaze after just a few moments, he couldn’t fathom why she was so angry.

They hadn’t spoken in years though they’ve shared so much.

The respect is absent. Love is depleted.

The desire to meet somewhere in the middle left that winter of 2008.

Now they just meet on the curb, never sharing a word.

The eye contact is fleeting and sporadic, awkward and confrontational.

She keeps attempting to lock eyes so he won’t forget.

She keeps attempting to lock eyes so he can’t forget the time when love was real.

 

 

Day 5- Food

This shit isn’t going to be poetic…

There is no song being sung about food…

My nemesis, my battle opponent…waging war since adolescence, forever winning.

An admitted emotional eater, I write this morning and think of the 5 days in a row I’ve gone to the gym and say fuck, food doesn’t always have to win. Sometimes it has to be me, unwilling to accept defeat. 

Meat and potatoes. Sugar and carbs. Lemonade and wheat thins after eight. 

Sugar has been compared to heroin. Weight Watchers or NA. 

What I’ve learned this week is I’m not for play…it may take me a while to want something bad enough to face my own demons…but this round, I’m coming for you and I’m hellbent on winning.

I’m 100% all for body positivity but this girl is sick of being overweight. Bring it. Fuck bad food.