Once, at my second high school, we did a weigh in (and also a hearing test and some other stuff). All the girls in my grade or class or whatever were in the room and that’s how I found out that I weighed more than a girl who had just had a baby. 

I used to count calories on post it notes at my third high school.

I used to eat celery and a blow pop for breakfast every morning on the 1/2 mile long walk to my bus stop at my first hs. 

I never made it to being skinny. Any time anyone says the word “diet” I panic because I wrote pages upon pages of numbers and goals and meal plans and food servings for years. I wrote descriptions of how it felt several days into eating maybe 700 calories. I wrote about days where I crashed and burned and wound up with a trash bin full of wrappers from individually packaged snacks. 

I love opening. The act of it, you know? It’s euphoric. Boxes, letters, snack cakes, candies. The fridge. The microwave. My closet. My dresser. Books. The convertible top. And I don’t like closing. I don’t like packing. I hate keeping myself off the scale, but it keeps me sane. I hate drowning out my ability to list calories. 

Every time someone suggests dieting, I hate having to shut it down. I know it’s a thing I need to do, and I know it’s not a thing people would expect me to have ever taken too far, but some people don’t lose weight when they have an eating disorder. Some people don’t lose weight on a healthy diet, and the frustration leads them down a dark rabbit hole of sleepless nights with empty bodies and then days where you eat dinner 3 times because two people “want to make sure you’ve eaten” because they’re worried about you. 

I know the best and worst foods to throw up. Still. Over a decade later. Comparing my body to other women as a form of shaming myself shakes my hand like an old friend. Smiling. 

This is what you’d look like if you tried harder. If you stopped eating carbs. If you hadn’t eaten your feelings after every. Single. Breakup.

The disgust with my body pulls my chair out at the table, pours me a glass of something strong and gives me a pep talk.

Your genes are bad. You have to overcompensate in order to even be normal. You have to do this every single day. For hours. You have to show your body that it can be better. Every time it was better, it took so. Much. Work. And that’s what you need to keep up. No time for anything else. 

My fear picks up a violin and screeches at me and calls it music. 

It killed your aunt; the bulimia, the anorexia. Her constant cycling between the two. You read her journal from treatment. And your only other option is to be a walking heart attack like your mother; you will be like her if you don’t run in that little hampster wheel. You already weigh more than half of what she does. So close. Your options are only these. Both will kill you. You’re going to die. The real question is: don’t you want to leave a pretty corpse? 


Untitled 5/20

Posted: May 20, 2017 in writing

I know I’m dead inside, but my life insurance provider says that doesn’t count and crematoriums don’t take walk-ins.


Posted: May 16, 2017 in writing

I am equal parts enthusiasm and wariness; 

Flame and ashes,

Bright and dark.

Don’t undermine my feelings,

Don’t reword my thoughts or experiences,

Don’t explain back to me what I just said,

Don’t tell me I’m irrational or that I’m not reacting properly or that I’m “a buzzkill” or that I’m lying or that I couldn’t possibly know something,

Don’t tell me my feelings are wrong or that I shouldn’t/can’t feel that way,

Don’t interrupt me,

Don’t hold my past against me and use it to claim I can’t/haven’t change/d because “you know me”,

And don’t try to tell me who I am/was/should be/ will be.

I’m not a project, I do not belong to you, I’m not a thing. Respect autonomy.

No Caskets, Please

Posted: January 18, 2017 in writing

​I want to be cremated. Put me in a wasabi peas tin or some shit. I have a Hello Kitty lunch box… That would work, too. And don’t have a funeral; throw a fucking rager. Pot luck that bitch. Get shit faced. Play music. Be weird. 

I’m not trying to die or anything… But don’t put me in a fancy upholstered box in the cold ground. Just don’t. I’ve been alone in boxes feeling 6 feet under enough during my life.

Posted: January 13, 2017 in writing

I am not myself;

I am shattered bits of a heart

Which loved the wrong people. 

I am a lightening storm

Even on a sunny morning;

I am the charred remains

Of a structure fire,

Black ashes and twisted metal and




Passed on a once-proud face. 

I cannot erase the rough, pink scars he left in my memory

Or the way his callous voice sticks in my head

Like a glue trap.

I healed wrong. 


Posted: January 1, 2017 in writing

Ten years–

It hit her like a big, broad locomotive on a track somewhere.

It had been ten years,

Or approximately that long,

Because–almost certainly–not to the exact day

Ten years since she’d left that little one-horse town,

Duffel packed and slung in the truck bed,

Skies widening as she emerged from the opressive, claustrophobic cover of the Ozarks

Like a butterfly escaping a chrysalis. 
Without hesitation, she’d embraced the next life.

A year in the woods was quite enough.

Just one more year existing among strangers, she kid herself, one more year and I can go find a home

A decade later, of course, she scoffed at her young optimism,

But appreciated how it had motivated her. 

Ten years out of the woods and she was still–

Or rather, again–no closer to a better situation. 

And here she was; dredging up a piece of the past.

A facebook friend request approved with a total lack of hesitation,

Some sort of hopefully good person on the end of that,

Because another lousy, unpresent person was the last thing her life needed. 

Even her best friend phoned less than monthly. 

There was a constant influx of random internet acquaintances,

But nothing ever quite satiated the chasm where

Actual social interaction was needed. 

And a decade later, here was a person she’d hardly thought of in those years,

But always as kind and friendly. 


She’d found herself unable to muster the courage

To try to be around anyone kind, before. 
Before, when they had every opportunity to be friends,

But chose only to be aquaintances.

Before, in the world of High School, where if someone with tits even smiled at someone with a penis , it would be rumored that they were fucking. 

Before, when they were different people; young and stupid. 
And now they owned a more seasoned young and stupid.

Both purposeless drops in a vast ocean, or a sea, or maybe just a lake,

But Hell, it seemed so big and black and directionless. 

Some sort of question mark pulsing like a waning motel vacancy sign within each of them; 

No real undercurrent to be found. 

The tired result of a generation lacking true opportunity despite its institutionalized optimism.

The sort of generation, which, due to its all-consuming disappointment in a meager reality

Had revolutionized the sale and production of wine.

Because, when your peer group is told by every prior generation to stop whining, 

They begin wining. 
It’s oddly comforting: the feeling one gets while drinking alone

With another, fifty-something miles apart.

Glass after glass of wine while she turned pages

And no telling what he drank or did,

But it was both comforting and less lonely all the same. 

And maybe that was where she messed up; getting comfortable. 
Because she hadn’t considered what she’d looked like to him

Eleven years before, as a shadow, huddled against a bus window that August,

Some new face with a wardrobe not so unlike Tim Burton’s.

Did she look as terrified as she felt?

Of course, he’d seemed to her some impossibly popular designated smart kid
With a side of boredom-inspired smart ass. 

And this one time,  he took his shirt off on the bus

And this one time, he brought a bucket of ice cream for breakfast and shared it

And this one time, he convinced her and a few others to jump out the emergency door at the back. 
That. That exact sort of quality was what she needed more of in her life; 

A little spontaneity with a dash of caution-to-the-wind thrown in. 

That quality was not exactly prevalent in him now,

A more world-weary worker bee

With ghosts in his eyes and scars on his heart.

He was still kind, though. 

Possibly even kinder. 

And that was okay. 

She would learn to become those things; the things she needed. 

Maybe he’d be along for that journey. 
If not, it was no loss of hers. 

On Giving

Posted: December 7, 2016 in writing

​People only want to give you their designated, trademarked, read-the-fine-print  little worlds. It’s not a world I want…. A given world, a world with indentured gratitude. 

I want an earned world; a world I carve out for myself. And if anyone else enters it, they need to be a partner, not a benevolent benefactor who stoops so low as to provide… 

                                                      ….to give.


Posted: December 7, 2016 in writing

​Took my car to the shop. 

Fingers crossed, 

heart breaking, 

wallet shaking in fear. 

​When you’re poor, your worst fear is losing even the crappiest job or vehicle. You don’t get to “quit and find something better”; you have to find something better and then quit.  My worst nightmare is not being able to pay my bills. I’ve managed to scrape together enough space on credit cards to save my credit score for years, but I worry about what will happen the day I can’t even when I’m trying my hardest to. 

I don’t learn to do my own car work because it interests me; it interests me because it saves me money. Even on small things, it is always cheaper to do it myself, but know-how is not something I have been fortunate enough to be equipped with. 

Every time I’ve been on my own, my savings has shrunk to zero. Something happened like not being able to find a job for months or one of my rabbits breaking her leg and requiring medical attention (which put me on a canned-and-ramen-soup budget for a while) or a microwave/dryer bursting into flames. And then the smallest thing could cost me my ability to pay my bills. Some jobs will fire you for taking a sick day. Some jobs will fire you for taking a day off at all, and if you have car work to be done and 12-hour shifts or maybe 2+ jobs… Many people wind up homeless or in debt. I wind up back with my parents. In credit card debt. 

And before anyone tells me I should “just work full-time”… I’ve made more money working 2 part time jobs because even when you’re ft, even when you’re poor, now, your company can force you to accept their insurance plan, which takes maybe 30, maybe 150 out of your pay for the month, even if you’re poor enough to qualify for free insurance. And if I lose a ft job, that’s it. All my eggs were in that one basket and I lost that bet. I don’t have enough savings to get laid off or to pay extra out of my check each month for an insurance plan I don’t need because I qualify for a free one. Paying for insurance out of your check when you’re poor is like working a whole day or so per month… For free. Paying union dues can be like working half a shift per month for free. 

You have to have money to save money. It’s absolutely true. It’s a mad, mad world full of little things that could end someone’s whole world in two words “you’re fired.” “it’s broken.” “payroll error.” “I’m sick.” “laid off.” “cut hours.”

No money.