I see the marks, feel the pain from the marks. Marks that I never thought I would have. No one would believe that I would have these marks. I still can’t believe I have these marks. I never thought I would understand the marks I see on others. I now understand. I understand the extreme mental anguish and despair that evoke the marks. I always thought I could handle it, handle my emotional pain. I never thought it could get worse. It got worse.

Was that day my rock bottom? I keep thinking about that day. I see it clearly; I hear it clearly. I remember. I remember fear, hurt, regret, disappointment, pain, embarrassment, despair, hopelessness. What I wanted was the darkness. The darkness of nothing. Was that the answer? Nothing? I wondered how long I would need the darkness; need the nothingness to last. Would it be for an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year? Would it be forever? Should it be forever? What would it be like, the darkness? Would it be like floating? Seeing everyone I loved, but I can’t get to them? Would I feel nothing? Would I feel the people I loved? Did the marks keep me from darkness, from nothingness? Maybe the marks saved me in some fucked up way. Did they?

It was a week ago that the marks showed up on my body. A week is not enough time to answer all the questions or figure out all the answers. Some days, waking up is the best I can offer. Other days, I want to conquer the world and give a big fuck you to all those judging me for trying to figure out my world. Why am I not allowed to be me, EVER? Always dancing the line between acceptable and hearing the disappointed tsk. Live for me, live for them. Live for me, lose them. Live for them, lose me. Why are there only two options?

Fuck. Do you see? This is where the marks come from. The exasperation, the desperateness, the hopelessness. My marks are mine. I own them, I understand them. I needed my marks.

Decision made

I think I have finally decided.  I finally decided I will eat myself to death.  Sound good?  Questions, comments, or concerns?  Why, you ask, would I even consider doing this?  Why not?!  I can consume all the awful, horrible things that this world has so lovingly created and that will cause havoc inside my body.  At some point the body will not be able to handle it and I will hopefully just go peacefully.  Even if I end up at an ER, I will have my DNR strapped around my neck and tattooed various places on my body, so everyone knows – DO NOT RESUCITATE.  But it can’t be that simple, right? I know it, you know it.  Jesus, why is keeping my mouth shut so fucking hard?  I just can’t stop it.  Open mouth, insert food.  Step on scale, swear and call myself names.  Fat ass being my favorite. 

What happened to me?  Why did I exit the weight loss surgery highway and start following the food truck path?  I sit here feeling like an overstuffed sausage link just waiting for the casing to split.  It’s fucking miserable, but I don’t stop. 

Is it stress?  Oh, absofuckinglutely it’s stress.  What about self-control?  Yep, total lack of self-control.  Do I feel shame for doing this?  The shame is mortifying, but it doesn’t make me stop.  What about guilt?  Guilt is what makes my world spin.  Of course, I feel guilty.  Guilty for disappointing people, guilty for embarrassing people, guilty for every fucking thing I have done wrong in my life.  And now, now it’s just out of control.  We all know control is an illusion, right?  But I want to live in that illusion of control.  I want to control the hand to mouth movement.  No, I want to be in control of my life. 

And, BOOM.  There it is.  It always comes out eventually.  The reason I mean.  I have no control over any aspect of my life.  None.  Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  For all the people that are in my world, everyone has a different opinion of what my life should be like, look like.  And all I can do is shut down the feels and eat.  Cause if I’m gonna disappoint everyone, I might as well go big. Get it, go big…………….

If you knew…

If you knew it was the last time we would sleep in the same bed, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew the last time we said I love you was actually the last time it would ever be said between us, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew it was our last dinner at the kitchen table, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew the last time we made love it was the last time we would ever physically be together, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew I would never stand in front of you again begging for your words, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew it was the last car ride we would take together, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew it was the last night we would sit in the family room in utter silence, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

If you knew it was the last time, would it be different? Would you care? What would you feel?

Do you know?

And so…

I will eat. I will eat and comfort myself in the only real way I know. Nothing else does the job. Nothing else fills the void. Nothing else eases the pain. There will be guilt and self hatred. That comes later. Who cares about that? I’ll use booze and sleeping pills to manage that.

The booze and sleeping pills can take me to the darkness, where nothing exists. There is no pain, no sadness, no guilt. Just nothing. The food will keep me safe in my fat suit. Where no one will want to touch me, love me. I will, again,become an embarrassment.

If I do the job right, my body will get bigger and my feelings smaller. It will be easier to lock the hurt, loneliness and despair far away. Things were easier when I was 300+ pounds.

FUCK. What am I doing? Seriously. What the fuck am I doing? I am tired. So very tired. The tired never goes away.

I want to stand naked in a field, arms flung wide, head back and scream to the heavens above to help me, answer me, lift me up, show me my path. Show me my destiny. Where am I supposed to be? Who am I supposed to be? I want to scream to the heavens “JUDGE ME NOW”. Because maybe if the heavens judge me now, I can cope with all those who judge me everyday.

And so, I will eat.

The feels

I felt – no – I realized something recently. I realized that I flipped my “feels” switch. I switched it to off. I’m not entirely sure when I did it. I think it was gradual. I am fairly certain it wasn’t intentional. I always liked my feels, at least I think I did.

What initially made me realize it was another baby girl moment. Around 12:03 AM on New Year’s Day, she started texting. Texts were as follows:

You up

He just called the cops on me – idk

Probably going to jail

Can dad come

I need the door to get fixed

I’m out he’s throwing everything out

She called at some point in between the texts. I was asleep and yes, somewhat tipsy from celebrating NYE. The first call was to say she wanted to leave but couldn’t get her car out. Wow, can you imagine that drippy dick parks her car in? Shocking.

(Rant warning – like the time about a month ago when they drove to Walmart in her car so she could buy food for them at like 10PM with her food stamps and he made her go in the store alone, kept the keys and stayed in her car. She called me crying not knowing what to do or where to turn. She didn’t know if he would even be in the parking lot when she went out. I gave her all the options possible and as always, she did nothing. Rant over)

She called a second time. I could hear she was walking. She said she had Goose, her cat, and was going to her car and she was coming home. That was around 12:30 AM.

I fell into a restless sleep. I stirred at every noise, but it was never the garage door going up. I looked outside for her car during every bathroom trip. Her car was never there. So, I woke up New Year’s Day not knowing if she was dead or alive, again. I started all the checking. Checking social media to see when she was last active, sending text messages, sending facebook messages, calling her over facebook messenger, calling her two cell phones. And I got no response. I fought with the idea of calling the police department in her area and asking them to check on her welfare. But, there are so many buts that go along with that.

She finally responded around 11AM, via text. She was alive.

Since it was New Year’s Day, my very small family was going to be gathering around 1PM for the annual pork, sauerkraut and knepp. And if you don’t know how amazing that meal is, I feel sorry for you. She sent a text at 12:30 AM that she was on her way. I was shocked, but thrilled. She showed up. She looked awful, so skinny, too skinny.

I did my best to talk to her to try and find out if she was physically OK. I know she isn’t mentally OK. She said she was. She said they fought until 3AM and then he slept in bed and she slept on the sofa (I didn’t even know they had a sofa). Drippy told her she should stay because he was concerned about her driving with all the drunks on the road. Yes, you read that correctly. I asked if she was done with the bullshit and she said she was. She said everything was packed, but she needed to fix the back door, according to drippy dick, because she shut the door and the hinge was now loose. Yeah, that’s because she lives in a shithole and has a slumlord as a landlord. The frame is rotting out. Drippy dick told her that her dad has to come fix the door. Oh, I have so many comments for drippy on that one. Sooooooooooooooooooooooo many comments. She said would leave the next day when drippy was at work. We, my and my husband, were off the following day as our work holiday. I felt better being home when she got there.

She texted first the next day. I asked what was happening and she said what we planned on. She said she guessed she was leaving. This was the text I got “He told me just to go so he can heal and grow without the weight of me on him.” HOLY FUCKING WOW. But there was still the issue of the door that her dad had to fix. As we were trying to figure out what would be needed to fix the door and if drippy left for work, she sent the following, “Yeah, I was jut gonna text dad back. Just forget about it. idk what’s wrong with me or why I stay. I think the back door is as fixed as it’s going to get, its a piece of shit anyway. I just have to go to Home Depot at some point I guess and get a new bathroom door and see if they can put the hole in it for the doorknob and what not.” That’s because the bathroom door also got broken during their fight.

She stayed, again.

That’s the last I have talked to her. Back to my feels. I don’t cry the way I used to, I don’t hurt the way I used to, I don’t feel the way I used to. And it’s not just with my baby girl. It’s with everything. I’m not reaching out to friends to check on them or reaching out to family the way I should.

The feels have been boxed up. Tucked neatly away like my Holiday decorations. No extra chaos in my brain! Keep those feels far, far away. Fuck. Am I pretending again? Or have I actually gotten so used to hurting that I am now numb to it? I would hate to see what would happen if I dusted off some of the feels.

A day

Today is a day. I felt it as soon as I woke up. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to be deep in the blackest sleep possible. Why? I’m not really sure.

I did my normal morning routine. It’s almost like it’s so automatic at this point I don’t even really remember doing it. Know what I mean?

I was in my car driving to work. I was definitely driving too fast, which I tend to do on a regular basis. Tempting fate, maybe? Anyway, I had music on. Celine Dion’s, These Are The Special Times. It’s my favorite Christmas album. I’m not even sure why. When CD’s were still a thing, I think I bought about 5 of them over the years because I played it so often. It shook loose all the feels that I have been stomping down and ignoring. I was on an exit ramp and thought…………. what if I set cruise control at like 80 mph and just shut my eyes. I didn’t. But I thought about it. I closed my eyes for a second. Then I thought about the innocent people I may hurt if I did it. I will carry more than enough guilt into my afterlife, I don’t need to add more.

Isn’t it amazing how many thoughts you can have in a very short time? I asked myself why, why would I even think about doing something like that? I thought being able to watch all the people that I love, but not feeling the feels, would be magical. Seeing their daily lives, watching them grow and flourish. Maybe nudging them gently in what I considered the right direction for them. And then I thought what if I couldn’t watch them? What if after the darkness there isn’t anything else. It’s just dark. Would I know? Would I know what I am missing? Would I still feel those feels that I want to run from? Would that go on for eternity? An eternity of darkness? An eternity of those feels? Is that what would happen? Is that what I really want?

Yes, this is a bit chaotic. My mind is a bit chaotic today. Today is a day.


I begged the darkness to take me.  Cocoon me in nothingness.  No feelings, no thoughts, no love, no loss, no hurt, no guilt – nothing.  Keep me safe from others; keep others safe from me.  I will let the darkness do with me as it wishes.  

I have no excuses for all the wrongs I have done.  I will not make excuses.  I am not a prize to be won or bartered for.  My love is not a prize to be won or bartered for.

The armor I wear every day is stronger than diamonds.  My heart, with each break, turns to stone.  Hard and impenetrable. 

I will try again tonight. I will whisper sweet nothings to the darkness. I will beg the darkness.

Spin cycle

I feel like rambling. My apologies.

So many different things circling in my brain. Kinda feels like a washing machine that is stuck on the spin cycle. I keep trying to break out of the cycle.

First and foremost is a dinner that is planned for tomorrow evening. It is with my sister and two friends. I am beyond fortunate to have these women in my world. It’s a shame my brain always gets in the way. I have given myself the title of “token fat friend” for the group. No one else gave me that, just me. And if anyone who doesn’t know us would see us out and about, they would easily pick me as the one that doesn’t quite fit with the group. Some may think that’s a good thing. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I will give the facts as I see them. Just facts, not my spin on the facts. I will spin those facts a bit later.

Facts: I am the largest of the group, I am probably the loudest of the group, I am the only one in the group with super short hair, I am the only one in the group with tattoos, I am the only one in the group that doesn’t exude confidence, I am the one in the group that will be slumped and slouched, I will eat less than anyone in the group, I am the only one in the group that swears like a sailor, I am the one in the group that looks at life a bit differently and has some very different views and opinions.

Those are facts. How my brain spins those facts is where the trouble starts. I have been worried about what I am wearing tomorrow evening for the last two weeks. What will make me appear smaller? What will make me fit in? What will everyone else wear? What if my tattoos are visible? Will everyone be embarrassed to be seen with me? Am I going to get another lecture about tattoos and how they aren’t feminine or whatever? I will do my make-up the best way I can in hopes to not look like a man. Hoping that the makeup will take away from a face that looks like a long horse face (a comment that my mother once made to me, and I can’t ever forget). I will cross my fingers in hopes my rosacea that I have gotten over the last two years will stay away tomorrow evening. If not, my cheeks, nose and forehead will appear blotchy and red, similar to a drunk person. I will sit with my back to the wall, facing out. This is for a multitude of reasons. First, my back fat will not show to those approaching from behind. It also helps when others are approaching the table that I would normally hug, because my seating choice makes it difficult to be hugged. Which means no arms/hands on the back fat, waist fat or hip fat. Of course, I will do my best to keep all fats controlled with spandex. But one can only wear so much spandex. While facing out, I get to watch the faces, stares, and reactions of others. The others in the group will share stories of travel and experiences I will never have. Again, due to seating choice I can observe and listen, waiting for the opportune time to make a smart-ass comment to deflect from what I am really feeling. That feeling would be inadequacy. A feeling I know well. People will also see me from the front, again due to choice seating. If viewed from behind, my super short hair reveals a neck area that has no definition either from the back or side due to a fat neck and double chin. People will be greeted by a smile. A smile that hides all the pain and doubts and insecurities. I will be the funny one, or at least attempt to be. I use humor to deflect from real feelings. Don’t ask me how my marriage is or how my daughter is unless you really want to know. Cause what I would like to tell you, well that shit ain’t pretty and you can’t handle the truth. I will scan the room, searching for those who are judging. I can tell who they are. The sideways glance that lasts a bit too long. Someone thinking or wondering what poor individual gets to wake up next to me in bed. And what the hell might that look like. If I resemble a bull dyke lesbian in full make-up, what must I look like first thing in the morning. Believe me, it’s horrific. And I don’t wear spandex to bed, so imagine that nightmare. People will come to the table we are sitting at because the others at the table are known. I will get introduced as the sister of one of the groups most well-known. I see the fleeting look of surprise, wonder and at times shock and horror cross people’s faces. How can that thing (meaning me) be related to the gorgeous, feminine, posh, woman? It’s at these times I will make it known we are only half-sisters. I got the bad half.

I will, of course, use the correct forks, use table manners that would make Emily Post proud. After all, while I might be a bull dyke lesbian looking thing, I’m not a complete cad. Now, pass the bread and let’s get this party started

What happens if I go away

Who will take care of cleaning?

Who will take care of cooking?

Who will take care of the wash?

Who will take care of paying the bills?

Who will take care of birthdays?

Who will take care of anniversaries?

Who will take care of holidays?

Who will take care of appointments?

Who will take care of ordering food?

Who will take care of getting groceries?

Who will take care of loading the dishwasher?

Who will take care of unloading the dishwasher?

Who will take care of the kids?

Who will take care of the grandkids?

Who will take care of giving support?

Who will take care of giving comfort?

Who will take care of giving love?

The world will continue to spin if I go away


My girl left. She packed her car Sunday and moved back to drippy dick. Back to the place I have been paying rent for. I’m guessing this has been going on for at least a month, if not longer. Did she go to therapy, ever? Will she continue? Will this be the end of her?

She did leave us a litter box full of cat piss and shit. So there’s that.

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