addiction

it's a dangerous thing
(i've never known it quite like most, but)
my life is based upon a lie and i began in some couple's 
cold turkey humdrum nothingness
(i just can't stand what this is doing to us)
i know you're knowing that i know
will ultimately lead to your demise
(but honestly though can you ever be with anyone?
truly be, like together, like one?)
you've worn me down and wore me out
and i'm running ragged breathless rushing catching up
inhale, it gets caught in my throat
choke
i can't be the only one who knows
not anymore
i care too deeply for you now to hold you back to keep you going
my only thought now is: who and how and why?
why oh why is this a thing
a true honest beastly thing that needs dealing with
and why, again, am i the only one strong enough to know
really know
what it's like to be the secret lover of a love gone horribly wrong?
i'm troubled with your troubles, dear, and here and there we realize that
we cannot pretend we're living someone else's humdrum life
and knowing now what i do know is knowing nothing worthwhile
nothingness is better than this, i think, and i can't quite
won't quite
figure it out.

i have a problem

i love you, you see.
i think i'm the last to know.
i just figured it out,
but i don't know how i didn't, sooner
faster
earlier
i guess i'm that mess i've been warning you about
but
i know you have a secret too
darling
can i hear it?
remind me of all those things you said
a lifetime ago
these months have been the longest i've ever known and
i'm having trouble contemplating the meanings behind
all the silly lies and lines and rhymes and
december always makes me nostalgic so
i guess, here it goes
i love you, i want you and i don't care who knows.

back, and better than ever

and here, now, just like that
all is right with the world again.


i'd never say i wasn't worried
but what i was
was
convinced of a lie.
(no, not a lie, but something not worth believing)
(or maybe it was worth believing, but unnecessary)


the bottom line is, relief has washed over like some sort of cliched phrase i'd rather not use.


what i mean to say is, well, here we are again.
and all is well.

on the floor

on the floor
on the couch
on the futon
on the bed
in lake michigan
on the beach
in the shade
in the sun
under a coastie, flying overhead
in the shower
in the bath
behind locked doors
behind unlocked doors
under blankets
on top of sheets
sweaty, achey, breathing heavy
half-clothed and writhing
laughing and crying
content and wanting
more more more
again again again

once more

why oh why oh why why why
does this keep happening?
and why oh why oh why
can i not stop
can't turn around
can't shut my mind off
i've been told to give up, to give in
but why oh why oh
no
i guess this is mine, now, too, again
and until then, my friend,
you're mine too.
assume responsibility, dear one.

time passes

i can't keep on
keeping on
like this here and now and there and where and when
then
yes it
it never made the best excuse
did it?

all i wanna do is kiss you all the time.

or maybe listen to norah jones with you. and giggle at your goofy smile.

standing in the way of control

really? i mean, really?!

and that's that.
i mean, that's what happened and maybe this is the way it will stay.
but maybe not.
(we both know it will happen again. and again. and again.)
my head is spinning.
like, really spinning. still.
i have no idea of what will happen next.

will anything happen?
we had a good thing there for a minute or so.
and then...well...that happened.
and maybe it will never happen again.

c'mere

I sit waiting shaking

Shivering like the first time you

Touched my face

Erase

A memory or two

Of you

getting there

Now more than ever

The weather

Gets me down.

But soon I’ll swoon

And wash my hair

My mermaid hair

In a lake in northern Michigan

And there are mysteries in store

When I get home

To you.

irish eyes are smiling

Good morning sun

You shine on me

Again with those beating promises

Of safety and sugary surprises.

(take me back to that moment, sweet delight)

But waking to you reminds me of

Tales of misery

(that’s the last place I want to go, now.)

and I’m alright

I’m more than okay

Brilliant

Grand, even

And moving on has become

A past tense verb

Finally, here, I can let go.

And sleep comes so damn easily now.

(Ireland has a funny way of messing with your memory)

joycean

Why is it that I just can’t stop thinking remembering daydreaming streaming consciousness quite too much to bear but hark! I won’t stop will not and nothing can force me to disengage now you’ve become too close to my heart and maybe I should be ashamed but I know that this is real true dear to me and I guess we’ll have to see but I promise

I will not let go.

passion

She is never at fault

But that doesn’t make it any easier

Victims rarely realize the reason for their accusations

Is the same as their own frustration

It’s easier to call on someone to hide your own shortcomings

Than it would be to admit defeat and reconstruct

Too many times spite takes hold

Closes in like a last gasp

Breathe too quick and you’ll need an oxygen mask

Breathe slow and you’ll go go go

Let go, let be

And remember who we used to be

I worry, I cry

But her eyes, your eyes are dry tonight

I can’t take responsibility anymore

ready

Okay, dear,

I’ll stay here

And watch your back turn

Slowly, softly

As if every twitch is too much to bear.

I’m happy to make

The same mistakes

I’ve made

All over again.

As long as they’re with you.

sunday night in clontarf

Sincerity makes for a good laugh

Let’s go to your gaff

Here I am again

Familiar, so close

As if I never left

And I awaken with ease

Please take me home

Now.

I know I fell asleep so easily

Too quickly

And I didn’t care

Enough

To make it right.

You

Owe me ten Euro

But your eyes behind your glasses look

Quiet

And ashamed

In the sunlight.

(I’m from the richest country in the world, boy, I can pay for the cab ride home.)

you there

It’s funny

The thoughts I can’t

Keep myself from having

Are the very same ones

You’ve had for years.

(Shall we?)

Yes.

I’m ready when you are, dear sir.

Let’s start the magic we know too well

We are capable of making.

a ditty

Sleep is for the weary

Dark

Dank

Dreary

Days and days of nothingness

And my imagination writhes alive

Becoming far too busy with peculiarities

That I have no excuse for

Here

On a bed

In a room

Behind locks and locks and locks

In a country torn by civil strife and cultural unrest

And general dissatisfaction

My mind wanders again

It wanders home.

primitive

Touch skin out and in

Thin

Tough break

Make it real, make me feel

You

Taste touch stare

Floating on air

Too slow to begin

Too quick to end

Again

Again

Again.

don't stop

Fucking

Life of a fugitive

Staring straight ahead

Get inside, do things to me

Your pure heart too rough for mine beating

Pump pump pump rhythmic

Nature is a timebomb ticking eggshells too fragile

Me

Too quick to step

Inside mind

Around a clown of ups and downs to ins and outs of you

Fulfill

That thrill

Of a still life.

canned

Can’t

Won’t

Stop.

Longing, missing, waiting, wishing.

Instead

I

Continue. Forge on. Sure, I am.

Make it right, baby, make it true.

satisfy

Two steps from the edge I will

Take the plunge

So surreal

Makes it close, too close

Swirling whirling nothing happiness twisting turning

Burning

For more.

Red

Not quite too delicious for this life

Not quite too light to take a swift bite

Out

Of an apple

Cored to the quick

Lick

That juice right off of your fingers

Here in neverland

That juice never made

Such a difference

too you

Lying in bed again I stare at the wall

Glance at the window, giggling

Selflessness right side up in my belly

Heaving with weight of

Spaghetti and scones.

Ireland has a funny way of fucking with your psyche.

And I can’t stop thinking of home

I can’t stop thinking of you, again,

You

With your silhouette

And your dirty hands and stiff fingers wrapped

Tapped

Zapped, zapping

My insides

Quick like a rabbit and swift like a knife

(I’ve run out of excuses for this one)

pondering some

i wish these encounters weren't so awkward

we both know what the other is thinking but

neither of us is making a move.

make it.

 i know you might roll your eyes at this/but i'm so happy you exist.

(i know lots of strange people. does that make me just as strange? okay.)

but i know traffic lights and subway trains

and city streets and picket signs

and two cups of coffee staining the linoleum

make some part of life worth living. 

(this is the part where you talk and i listen. i'm good, you know.)

that man on the corner

the one with crazy eyes and crazier hair

he just asked for some change to buy an ice cream cone and

one time i handed a leftover sandwich to a guy asking for spare change

and i realized later that i did it in hopes that you

one of you

might see it.

i wish that stupid thoughts and irony

could become as valued as

the honesty i'm searching for.

where?

here, there, everywhere.

(gimme shelter)

just tell me what you're thinking because

like i said before

it probably matches all these

petty pretty silly little thoughts 

rattling

around

in this brain of mine.

amongst the lists of emails and phone calls and stories

i have

loose change

thoughts

building up waiting to be spilled

to the first one who asks.

(you asked, once, and i said i was thinking about a lot of things. you didn't pry. i wanted you to.)

help me out make me shiver make me pout 

help me out make me discover what it feels like

really feels like

to be with another.

one of you. any one of you.

(make a move. i would, but i'm old-fashioned. even though you wouldn't expect it from the likes of me. i'm always a surprise, you'll see.)

The Walls Are Caving In

“Yah know something? I don’t give a flying fuck one way or the other. Just do something—anything. Make something happen. I’m bored as hell.” Alex’s eyes didn’t leave the TV screen while he screamed. Xbox controller in hand, he slouched on the hand-me-down floral-patterned couch.

            “Fuck you, Alex. What am I supposed to do? Everything about this place is boring,” I yelled back from the kitchen, where I sat at the chipped dining room table, balancing our checkbook. We both could’ve walked the seven paces to the other room, but were far too focused on what we were doing to do so. I flipped my bangs out of my eyes.

            Shit, I thought. Looks like we still can’t take that trip to Florida. Our trailer here in Akron, though shabby and rundown, still ate up all my tip money every month. Waitressing at the local diner had proven futile. How had we ended up this way?

           

Alex and I had met at Ohio State seven years earlier. He’d washed his hair daily back then, and he was clean-shaven and well dressed. A sophomore business major, he’d had graduated at the top of his high school class and planned to attend the University of Michigan for his MBA. Yeah, yeah, we know about the rivalry, but even I can admit UM’s business school is highly ranked. I would’ve made due in Ann Arbor, anyway.

            I was still writing, then, and my passion for European history hadn’t faltered. I was thin back then, too. I was a catch. Alex and I—we were a good match—great, even.

            We met on a snowy Friday night. Since it was so chilly outside, the local bar was packed. Halfway through the evening, I went to grab yet another beer. I spun away from the thick oak bar and ran directly into him, dumping my Coors all over his plaid button-down.

            “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! Let me help you clean that up,” I exclaimed, searching for the barkeep and his rag.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Alex said and smiled, his electric grin lighting up the dim, smoke-filled bar. “Can I buy you another?”

            I nodded. We got another and I followed him through the hordes of drunken students to the table he and his buddies had claimed. The cheap veneer was chipped and scratched, carved with the names of hundreds who’d come before us. Though he was there with a bunch of his friends, Alex seemed to only have eyes for me. That night, I discovered that he was in one of my history classes and had often thought about asking me out.

            “Ya know, Sarah, you’re beautiful. I look at you all the time from across the lecture hall,” he said, grinning again. I was smitten.

            “Yo. Bring me a beer, will ya?” Alex didn’t even glance up from his game to make his request. I was tempted to throw the can of Coors directly at his head, but aimed for the couch cushion instead. Couldn’t afford those hospital bills, that’s for sure. Can’t afford anything about this life, I thought, looking around the kitchen, suddenly severely depressed. The paneling was peeling off the wall above the ten-year-old stove. The refrigerator was dirty and barely kept anything cold anymore. The faucet in the rusty, discolored sink wouldn’t stop dripping. Seven steps away, in the living room, the carpeting was a mess of cigarette burns and stains from spaghetti sauce, chocolate syrup, and coffee. Alex spent all his time in that room, playing his games and wallowing in unemployed self-pity. I had the lucky opportunity to serve him dinner night after night, my existence barely being acknowledged, unless I happened to step in front of the television. After five years of marriage, added to an earlier two of living together, I had picked up on some tricks to get him to notice me again.

            He’d proposed in July, after graduation but before we hopped the flight to Paris. Our plan was to backpack through Europe for a few months before grad school. Alex told me he was too anxious to wait until we returned to the States.

            “…So, Sarah, will you?” Alex was down on one knee in the middle of the busy expanses of O’Hare. His jeans were wrinkled and his hair had grown a bit shaggier to go along with his new beard. I’d never been more in love with him.

            “Oh my God! Yes, yes, YES! Of course!” Tears were streaming down my face, and I dropped my pack, letting brochures fly. Alex picked me up and spun me around, my white peasant skirt floating behind me. I’d never been happier. I felt as if I was floating myself.

            The ring was vintage, tiny and perfect. He slipped it on my ring finger and the crowd that had gathered around us applauded, blew kisses, and smiled. We walked, hand in hand, toward the gate to board our flight.

            Alex’s blond mane was shaggier now—greasy, too. He’d lost his love for business, for sports, for running…for me. That was obvious. He was too far-gone, adrift in the fantastical worlds of Halo and EA Sports. His obsession with video games had stemmed from a long list of unanswered resume submissions, unreturned follow-up phone calls, and hundreds of rejection letters. Although he’d had all the education, money, and talent in the world, Alex was missing something. It took six years for him to give up, but he has, and for no other reason than he’s found it easier to give up than to continue trying and failing.

           

            When we returned from Europe, Columbus sat waiting for us like a big ball of clay with which we could build our hopes and dreams into reality. Though he hadn’t been admitted into any of his MBA programs, Alex was determined to make his mark on the business world. He considered opening his own store, but couldn’t decide what to sell, buy, repair, or otherwise do for the general public. He didn’t have much talent or passion for things beyond learning business techniques, but was positive his ambitions would prove fruitful.

            We had a small ceremony in the backyard at my parents’ estate outside of the city. My father’s horse breeding business had been doing well for decades, and I’d grown up comfortably, riding horses and attending private school. Alex also came from farming money, but we both decided to move away from our parents in hopes of striking out on our own—for real this time. We refused our inheritances and swore that we knew how to live simply and support ourselves.

            “You don’t want any of your old jewelry, Sar?” My mother was concerned, as it felt to her that our determination was a renunciation of our former lives. “What’ll we do with Betsy? She’ll be so lonely without you.”

            “Mom, it’ll be fine. Alex and I don’t need all that stuff. I’ll come visit Betsy when I can, ride her for old time’s sake. We want to do things for ourselves!” I was certain we were making the right decision. “You’ve taken care of me, fed me, clothed me, given me everything I could’ve ever needed or wanted…I want to try things on my own now. And Alex…well, he’s right here beside me.”

            “My darling daughter, I’m just so damn worried about you!” She started crying again. “I’m proud, too. I know you and Alex will be happy and do great things. I just don’t understand why you’d want to cut ties with us!”

            It wasn’t Alex and I that cut ties, in the end. My parents stopped visiting when we moved out of our apartment and into the trailer. They claimed the drive from Columbus was too long and exhausting, but Akron was only two hours away. They were too embarrassed to knock on our busted door, too worried about parking the BMW in the trailer park lot. Alex’s parents were too busy traipsing around the world to come visit at all. I still call Mom on Christmas and her birthday, but she’d grown so ashamed of us that I wouldn’t doubt she’d told all of her friends we’d died.

            With the checkbook balanced, I went to see about the laundry situation. I generally spend my days off from the diner doing the cooking, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping—everything. I’ve stopped trying to get the stains out of the carpet in the living room, because I’m sure to find new ones every time I step foot in there. Otherwise, I keep the trailer as tidy as possible so I don’t go crazy.

            I separate the boxers and bras from the jeans and towels and start a load of colors. I wish with all my heart that things will change, that Alex will come around, that we can try again someday. I rub my belly; it’s emptiness the sorest subject of all in this predicament.

            I was pregnant by the time we moved to Akron, two years in to our marriage. My parents came to stay a lot back then; our apartment was far more welcoming and acceptable. I’d make them lasagna and meatloaf, feeling so matronly with my apron wrapped over my bulging belly. Alex had hoped to find work, but was sorely disappointed at the lack of options in his field. For a long time, he refused to work, leaving me to fend for the three of us. Since I wasn’t able to get my master’s, I couldn’t teach history as way I’d intended. I started waitressing after our savings ran out, when Isabel was nine months old. With all the hours I was picking up at the diner, I wasn’t able to do much else. Losing the baby weight had proven impossible and I dealt with it as best I could, but I knew Alex was no longer attracted to me. Our only saving grace was little Izzi. No matter how many rejections Alex got, he was ecstatic to be a father. He poured all of his energy into Izzi, coming up with creative ways to keep her occupied while I was away at work. Night after night, I’d walk in to macaroni necklaces or play-doh messes on the kitchen table. She’d leave her coloring book pictures out for me to admire and always expected to see them on the fridge the next day.

            With the laundry started and the checkbook balanced, I moved on to the dishes and grocery list. The sounds coming from the living room were unmistakable—gunshots and clinking metal were the soundtrack of my Sundays at home.

            “Al, hon, do you want anything from the store?” I pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail and turned on the faucet.

            “Just, whatever. Hey, are we leaving this town or what? I need to get out of here.” I heard him take a swig of his beer over the din of the video game.

            “Um…I don’t think so. I wish we could, but we can’t afford it. Maybe if you got a job…” I closed my eyes, waiting for his verbal abuse to begin.

            “Oh, right,” he replied, scoffing and pausing the game. “Rrriiight! Like that would solve all of our fucking problems! Me getting a job…bah. Fuck that. You owe me so much. Izzi…” His voice sounded choked, and he coughed to clear his throat. “I just…I’m not getting a job. Not right now. I can’t.”

            “Six months ago, on a day-off Sunday, the three of us had decided to go to the zoo in Columbus. Izzi was four, and all she could talk about were the bears and penguins she saw on TV at daycare. Alex held my hand as we traipsed about the park. He’d been working at FirstEnergy Corporation for the last four years and was, luckily, making enough money for me to cut back on shifts at the diner.”

            The prosecutor looked uninterested. “What happened next?”

            “Izzi’s four-year-old independent streak had convinced me to allow her to buckle herself into her carseat. I drove the Camry on I-71 north towards Akron. We were singing along to Izzi’s favorite Disney Princess CD and I may have allowed myself to get a little reckless.”

            The prosecutor looked up from her nailbeds. “And…?”
            “All I remember is waking up in a puddle of blood. I saw Izzi’s legs sticking out of the windshield, but she wasn’t squirming like she normally does. Alex was still unconscious and we had flipped the Camry over the median. I could hear sirens and see lights, but I couldn’t move.”

            “Thank you, Mrs. Douglas. That will be all. The prosecution rests.”

           

A year ago, I was sued after a car crash I had caused killed three women and a child in a neighboring car. The crash also took Izzi’s life and severely damaged Alex’s psychological state. The lawsuit ate away at our savings and we found ourselves hitting rock bottom emotionally, physically and financially. Alex went to therapy for a while but, ultimately, we couldn’t afford anything but absolute necessities.

The funeral was held on the Sunday following the crash. Alex and I had been lucky enough to walk away from the crash with minor cuts and scrapes. I had continued to work, as I felt more productive at work that I ever could at home. I threw myself into my job and allowed my mother to plan the service.

It drizzled that day, as if we were in the movies. Izzi’s casket was the smallest I’d ever seen. I felt uncomfortable in my black polyester dress, aware of the way it hugged my chunky body. Alex couldn’t stop crying, but I couldn’t bring myself to start. Everyone brought flowers and casserole dishes for Alex and I. Of course, the procession to the grave was as depressing as ever, but I kept my mind on my dress. I didn’t think about Izzi.

            After the funeral, my parents sent Alex and I to a hotel. When we returned, every trace of Izzi was gone. The apartment was wiped clean of her coloring pages, colored macaroni, and tubs full of Barbie dolls and play-doh. My license had been revoked, so we found a trailer park within walking distance to the diner and a grocery store. Well, I found it. Alex has been a little off ever since. He stopped going to work during the trial and can’t bring himself to search for another job. Times are tougher than ever, and I don’t know where to turn.

            “Okay, well, I’m off, then,” I said, grabbing my ragged shopping bags and heading for the door.

            “Don’t forget another thirty-pack of Coors. And hurry back!” Alex’s eyes were glued to the screen again.

            As I walked the mile to the Piggly Wiggly, my mind went blank. I didn’t want to think about Alex, or Izzi, or work, or my life any longer. I didn’t want to pity myself any longer. Maybe I can go back to school in the fall, or maybe I can find a better job. Something, anything to make this life worth living again. I hadn’t allowed myself to mourn the death of my own daughter. I’m sick of serving everyone else, putting Alex before myself. Putting my customers before myself. I’ve stopped looking out for me. I looked up to see my reflection in the grocery store door. I’m thirty pounds overweight. My hair’s stringy and unwashed. I’m wearing stained gray sweatpants and a tattered Ohio State t-shirt. My face is wrinkly and my eyes are drooping. I’m twenty-six years old and this is all I have to show for myself. After buying these groceries, I’m going to go home and find some extra money. We need a vacation.

            I could smell it before I saw it. Burning leaves, maybe? As I rounded the corner and headed in to the trailer park, I caught a glimpse of orange flame licking a tree. Shit. I dropped the groceries and ran straight down the dirt road towards our trailer, now fully engulfed in flames. The wood paneling, cheap carpeting, and electronics must’ve it easy for the fire to spread quickly, devastating everything in its path. The trailer was gone. But where’s Alex?

            “ALEX! Where are you?” I screamed between sobs. As if things couldn’t get any worse…

            I ran to the neighbor’s to use their telephone, but Mrs. Mulvaney had already dialed 911. A fire truck, ambulance, and two police cruisers screeched to a halt in front of the trailer. As the firemen hosed down the remains of my home, Officer Kirt questioned me.

            “Do you know what the cause of the fire was?”

            I scanned my brain, trying to remember leaving the stove on. “Well, there were clothes in the dryer…”

            “Was anyone inside?”

            Panic seized my heart. “Alex! Alex, my husband. I can’t find him. I went out to get some groceries…”

            “Settle down, ma’am. We’ll figure out where your husband is. Anything else you can tell me?”

            “He was playing video games. That’s what he does, for hours on end. Could it have been an electrical fire?”

            “Maybe, ma’am. We’ll find out soon enough. Do you have anyone to stay with?”

            I tried to remember the last time I’d talked to my mother. “My parents are in Columbus, but I don’t want to leave without my husband!”
            “I’ve sent a search party out to the woods. He probably thought the fire would spread and wanted to get as far away as possible.” Officer Kirt pulled out a notepad and pen. “Can I call your parents for you?”

            I gave him my parents’ address and phone number and asked if I could use his phone to call them myself. My mother picked up on the first ring and hesitantly agreed to come pick me up.

            “It’s two hours from Columbus, officer. What should I be doing right now?”

            “Well, I can take you back to the station if you want. Or you can wait in my cruiser.”

            I needed something to busy myself with, something to keep my mind off of my husband’s disappearance. I knocked on Mrs. Mulvaney’s door once again, and spent the next two hours planting her tulip bulbs.

            “Sugar, don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure everything will be just fine,” my mother said calmly, rubbing my back as I took deep breaths to steady my thoughts.

            “I know, Mom. I just need to know if he’s alright.”

            “You’ve been through a lot today, hon. Why don’t you go take a nap and I’ll let you know when Officer Kirt calls?” She pushed my shoulder gently, urging me upstairs.

            In my old bedroom, remnants of my old life glared at me from every corner. Horse show ribbons, honor roll certificates, and dance medals covered one wall. My desk was as I had left it, with college papers strewn about. Straight A’s, all of them.

            I sat down on my canopy bed and pulled my knees to my chest. The floral pillowcases invited me to lay my head down and, before I knew it, my mother was shaking me awake, holding the phone out towards me.

            “Officer Kirt? Did you find him? Did you find my husband?”

            “We did, Mrs. Douglas. I regret to inform you, however, that it was only his body we found. It was inside the trailer.”

            A single tear slipped down my cheek. I brushed it away quickly, unable to think of anything but the phone calls I needed to make. After hanging up with Officer Kirt, the fire department finally called with their final report. Their assessment, along with AAA’s, determined the cause of the fire to be faulty wiring. I was able to claim all my losses, but could barely think knowing Alex would never sit by my side again. After hanging up with AAA, I called Alex’s parents, who were in Alaska for the summer.           

            “Mrs. Douglas, I’ve got some horrible news.” I explained about the fire and expressed my sadness for her…our loss.

            “Well, m’dear, he’s probably in a better place now.” Mrs. Douglas’ voice was garbled, as if she was holding back sobs. I wasn’t sure where her optimism was coming from.

            “Darling, he never wanted to burden you, but he was a horribly sad boy. Right from the very beginning, we had him in therapy. Bipolar disorder.” She went on to tell me about the late-night phone calls she’d been receiving from him for years, the tears and agony and threats of suicide.

            “He always told me that he was a bit…off…but never to this extent. I can’t believe him!”

            “Like I said, dear, he didn’t want to burden you. He loved you, wanted to be with you, wanted what was best for you. He wanted everything in the world for you and, when he couldn’t give it to you, he sprialed out of control.”

            “I don’t understand. How could he not tell me?”

            “He was never very talkative, dear. He loved you and Izzi with all his heart, though. He hasn’t been able to cope since you lost her. I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

            I lay back down, finally unable to hold back the sobs that had been building for so long. That night, I cried for Izzi. I cried for the life I was never able to give her and for the time I wasn’t able to spend with her. I cried myself to sleep and, in the morning, cried for Alex. I cried for the things he was never able to tell me and for the bitter end he had reached. I cried for what seemed like days. My mother and father came in intermittently with tea, water, and their own tears. We shared grief that had been, for so long, bottled up and hidden away. I had finally found a way to express myself and I spent days holed up in that room. I found my voice again, started writing and started allowing myself to face my failures for the first time. In the end, it was me that I found. Finally, I had reconnected with that girl. When I emerged days later, I breathed deeply, knowing that things would be forever different.

Delusion

Her sagging breasts, flabby stomach, and bulging thighs suggested an age that far surpassed her actual years. She gasped, sucking in that godforsaken stomach for as long as she could manage—a few seconds at most. She turned to the side, her wide green eyes examining her all-too-sad-looking body. In the mirror’s reflection, light shone through the open blinds behind her and she gasped again—this time in embarrassment. Surely the neighbors could see every dimple she tried so carefully to keep concealed. She ducked, resting her paunchy knees on the marinara-sauce-splotched carpet that she had forgotten to clean again this month. Ugh.

Crawling out of the window’s sight, she straightened up again and allowed her body to become what it truly was—fat, ugly, disgusting. Her chin too jiggly, her neck too thick, her shoulders too square, her breasts too floppy, her ribcage too damn huge—nothing fit right. Nothing worked right. In her short twenty-five years of life, she’d become old, haggard, droopy, sad. Relaxing the muscles that had never been properly engaged, she sighed. Her waist so wide, her hips so puckered, her buttocks so flat, her legs so short, her feet so flat—she wasn’t happy. Glancing at her reflection once more, she realized it was no wonder no one fancied her. Not only was she unsightly, she was also completely paralyzed by self-loathing. Upon Googling her self-diagnosed symptoms, she finally came to terms with the truth—she was normal. She was suffering from normal issues that other normal people suffer from. She wasn’t alone. With that, she decided to get herself dressed in old clothes and a new attitude.

Cellulite isn’t the end of the world, she reminded herself while tugging on her skinny jeans. You’re curvy, you’re fabulous, you’re…normal. Everyone has cellulite. She grabbed the waistband of her jeans and jumped once, twice, three times, shimmying into them. Sucking in her stomach, she fastened the brass button and zipped. She decided not to breathe normally, instead holding her stomach taut and puffing out her chest. I could pull these off, she thought. I could make these work. She dug through her closet for a flowing tunic top; grabbing one and throwing it on, she hoped beyond hope that it would hide her muffin top. Her anxiety met her at the mirror. She primped and struck a thousand poses. The flowers on her tunic floated about, dancing to the beat of her every movement. The pink petals matched her flushed cheeks, and the green stems complimented the emerald hue of her eyes. She reached a level of contentedness with her appearance that would otherwise be considered settling, but the clock had struck twelve far sooner than she’d hoped it would.

Time for work. She sighed, throwing her bulky black jacket on over her tunic. Chicago looked cold today. She grabbed her brown purse and keys—complete with her “Anne” keychain that her baby sister had given her last year—and headed for the door of her studio apartment. You’d think that living in a sixth-floor walk-up in a large city would help trim her thick frame. Instead, Anne’s appetite was never satisfied. She wanted more, loved the rich tastes of her favorite foods, the way they felt going down her throat, the taut fullness of her stomach. Chocolate, pasta, chicken fingers and pizza seemed to be the extent of her diet. She smiled, thinking of the chocolate scone she planned on eating the moment she walked in to work.

Mocha Choka Coffee Parlor. This shop was both the bane of Anne’s existence and the root of her happiness. At $7.50 an hour plus tips, she barely made enough to pay for that sixth-floor walk-up, let alone the classes she’d wanted to take this semester at the University of Chicago. She’d thought that a political science class or two would be manageable this semester. Too damned expensive, this city was. At this rate, she’d never be able to take the LSAT, never get in to law school, never get out of the coffee shop and into the real world. Had she known it earlier, she might never have left the comforts of small-town Sidney, Illinois.

Luckily, Mocha Choka offered a wide array of sweet snacks, all eager to add to Anne’s waistline. Chocolate scones, marbled muffins, Seven Layers of Heaven bars—Anne sighed, examining the case, her mouth watering incessantly. Of course, eating one of those Choco-no-nos would probably just add to her self-image issues. She reeled from the case, shook her stringy blonde bangs out of place, and made a beeline for the restroom. God forbid she serve any of those sugary delights with unwashed hands.

In the public restroom, Anne couldn’t help but examine her acne-scar-pocked cheeks. She had fastened her hair back with a bobby pin, but the static frizzies didn’t want to stay in place. Finally resting her eyes on the dark bags beneath them, Anne decided to make a change. She thrust her hands under the automatic dryer and stepped out of the restroom a new woman. No more Choco-nonos. No more self-degradation. No more popping pimples.

“You’re late!” Linda’s shrill voice carried over the din of the customers’ conversations.

“Yeah, I know. But my hands are clean!” Anne wrapped her brown apron around her belly, careful to cover her muffin top.

“I’m gonna start cutting your hours, Saunders.”

“No, no, please don’t! I know I’m late a lot, but it’s because of my asthma. I can only walk so fast!”

“Leave earlier. Consider yourself a seasonal employee. Watch your back.”

What a heinous bitch, Anne thought as she made her way from the apron station to the cash register. With her black hair and brown eyes, Linda certainly was a likely candidate for the devil’s wife.

“Get to work,” Linda hissed from the left side of her mouth.

“Welcome to Mocha Choka. How can I help you?”

On her way home, Anne usually had a large Mocha Frappuccino with extra whip in one hand and a scone in the other. Somehow, she seldom noticed the three gyms, the Weight Watchers outlet, and two clothing stores for petite women that she passed on her regular route. Today, however, her hands were empty. She’d elected to skip the normal snack in her new diet. She’d decided to stop eating during the day, instead filling up on one larger meal at dinnertime. Anne’s cheeks flushed at the sight of all those scantly clad women that were willing to ride their stationary bikes in full view of the rest of the world. How could she get a body like that? Why wasn’t it easier? Anne sucked in her stomach once again, inhaling fully and feeling her lungs burn from the bitterly cold air. After a few more deep breaths, she opened the door to the nearest Weight Watchers storefront.

Home again, Anne shed her bulky jacket and pulled the Weight Watchers application out of her purse. Yes, she thought, this is a good idea. This’ll work. I can make this happen. She reminded herself of what the Weight Watchers representative had said to her next to the scale.

“Remember, you control your destiny,” the svelte brunette rep insisted, smiling brightly at Anne. “You can regain control of your life.”

She threw the application near the sink, its stark white contrasting the dark Formica countertops. She opened the cupboard, grabbed a glass, and poured herself a glass of milk, taking deep gulps to slow her heavy breathing. The sixth-floor walk-up wasn’t doing anything for her asthma, that’s for sure. Putting the gallon back in the fridge, she noticed a distinct lacking. Rotting strawberries, one plate of leftover pad thai from the restaurant around the corner, and a bottle of ketchup was all that was staring back at her. Grocery shopping was going to be a hassle. She pulled a pound of ground beef from the freezer, hoping that it would thaw quickly.

            Anne considered avoiding her email, but couldn’t help but wonder what craziness her parents were up to this week. After Anne and her sister graduated and moved from small-town Sidney, their parents sold the farm, bought an Airstream, and started driving. They’d been criss-crossing the country for years, rarely stopping to take a breath before continuing down the road. Anne couldn’t remember the last time her parents had seen her apartment, with its peeling paneled walls, it’s chipped toilet bowl, and it’s cheap linoleum flooring. They were keeping a blog, somehow, and her mother couldn’t help but update it hourly. Anne had scrolled through pictures of the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge, Route 66, Mount Rushmore, and the Pacific Ocean, not surprised that they had never taken a vacation during her childhood.

            In her spare time, Mom was scanning all of their old photos onto the computer. Every once in awhile, she’d send Anne one with a caption exclaiming, “remember when you looked this good?” Staring back at her from the screen was usually a prepubescent Anne, thin as a rail with long, lanky limbs. Anne had started gaining weight in high school and, after graduating and with new-found diet freedoms, her weight had skyrocketed in college. Since then, she couldn’t go a day without her mother reminding her of what she could be. Between the pictures of her childhood and the pictures of her parents—they had been married for thirty-two years and had tall and thin replicas of one another—Anne was constantly reminded of her hefty downfall. The criticism from her mother only made her want to eat more, however.

Snug in her bed, Anne found the application less than appealing. Anne decided to think it over a bit longer and instead opted for some spaghetti and meatballs to curb her appetite. She turned on her television to find that the six o’clock news had just finished. Just in time for “Man Vs. Food,” Anne thought, smiling while digging the spaghetti noodles out of the pantry. Before flipping the channel, however, the beginning credits for “The Biggest Loser” came onto the screen. Anne hesitated. Should I watch this instead? Maybe it’ll inspire me.

Commercial time. Anne struggled to pull herself off the couch, carrying a plate, once heaped in spaghetti, meatballs, and marinara, to the sink to wash. She left one plate, one glass, and one fork to dry in the dish rack and turned to the freezer, where one pint of Ben and Jerry’s was sitting with her name on it. Anne grabbed a spoon from the drawer and hurried back to the couch just in time for the eHarmony commercial. Damn, it seems like these things get played triple time before Christmas.

“Joining eHarmony wasn’t necessarily to get a date; it was to meet the right person,” Lee claimed from the TV screen. He and Anne Marie looked too damn happy.

Anne dug her spoon into her Chunky Monkey with intensity, her face turning red from the physical exertion. I am sick of these commercials telling me what is and isn’t good for me. I want it all, faster, easier, better. Before she knew it, The Biggest Loser had returned. Anne dropped the empty container, satisfied with her choice to eat like a real person.

Anne climbed in to bed, her flannel sheets providing warmth that her otherwise cold and empty bed did not. It was only late at night that she wondered what it would be like to be smaller. To be in shape. To be any shape at all. It must be a burden. I can’t stand the idea of having to maintain that kind of image. I think I’m fine the way I am. With that, Anne rolled over on to her side and fell promptly asleep.

Monotony ensued. Anne’s life slogged on at a snail’s pace. She ripped up the Weight Watchers forms the next day and tossed them in the trash on top of the empty Ben and Jerry’s container. She continued to pass the gyms and clothing stores on her way to and from work. She continued to eat entire family portions of her favorite foods. She even stopped dreaming of, one day, being able to go back to school. Instead, she settled for a mundane existence in the Windy City.

At Christmas, her parents called and wished her a merry one. She’d elected to spend it with her sister, Mary, at her home outside of Milwaukee. Watching her nephews race through the house, slipping on the wood floors and shooting each other with their brand-new Nerf guns, Anne realized how alone she truly felt. She helped herself to more than her fair share of Christmas cookies and smiled, hoping that a new year could mean a fresh start.

In April, the lilacs and tulips bloomed outside of Anne’s high-rise apartment building. The sun shone brightly again, and the runners returned to their normal loops, passing Anne by as she coughed and heaved her way to Mocha Choka. The last traces of snow were melting, as was her resolve to be happy the way she was. Her weight had skyrocketed through the winter months, adding more jiggle than ever before. Anne’s habits had gone from bad to worse, as she could now finish an entire box of spaghetti in a single meal. Her clothes stopped fitting again. Her jacket was too tight around the middle. What she had chalked up to “winter blubber” had become Anne’s new norm.

Why is it that, as soon as I start thinking somewhat positively about myself, I decide to binge? Why can’t I keep any of the promises I make to myself? Why don’t I have the resolve to lose weight?

April had proven promising. Anne decided to join a gym. She was getting more hours at the coffee shop and so allowed herself the extra expense. At first, she worked out in men’s sweatpants and the most athletic-like shoes she could find in her closet—a pair of flats from Payless. She promised herself that, with each pound dropped, she would add money to a “gym clothing” savings account. She even hired a physical trainer, who sent her to death’s doorstep three times a week.

“Seven more! Anne, you can do this! Six more!” Jeff’s face flushed as he screamed orders at her. Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking his muscle tee during the first ten minutes of each session. His V-shaped body, sex-foot-one-inch height, and rippling muscles intimidated Anne, giving her both the energy to push through and the will to quit.

The gym, Muscle Madness, was a sole room that smelled of sweat and empty promises. Jeff met her at the door on that first Monday, greeting her with a “humpf” and forcing her to do a turn, as if he wanted to know what he was working with. He pointed out the cardio stations near the front windows, the circuit machines in the middle, and the locker rooms in the back.

After ten crunches, she couldn’t bear anything more. But Jeff was always kind enough to help her remember her self-worth.

“Anne, get your fat ass up and do some push-ups. Pronto!”

Ten push-ups later, she found herself sweat-covered and collapsed in a heap at Jeff’s feet.

“Anne! I’m not going to tell you again. Get your fat ass up. It’s cardio time!”

His veins bulged from his forehead and neck, making his red face all the scarier. Anne didn’t remember signing up for Army boot camp. Of course, Jeff was an ex-Marine and, therefore, didn’t think anything of his routine vocal abuse.

Three times a week, Jeff led her through normal exercises—sit-ups, push-ups, cardio, circuits—and, three times a week, Anne left the gym feeling as if she’d die before ever again stepping foot in her apartment. Her asthma was working overtime and her muscles ached from all the new activity. Anne couldn’t help but complain to anyone who’d listen. Her sole friend at work, Candace, would shake her long brown curls in earnest every time Anne brought it up.

“Anne, you are not fat!” she would exclaim. “I don’t understand where this obsession with weight comes from.”

“Candy, I’m just so lonely. I think that losing weight would help me find a guy.”

“What do you need a guy for? You’re gorgeous, perfect just the way you are.”

“Get back to work!” Linda would shout. “It’s about time you lost some weight.”

“Get your fat ass up, Anne!” Jeff shook sweat from his brow. “You have a million pounds to lose!”

He handed her a list of approved foods and snarled, “See you next week.”

She examined the list. Fish, spinach, salad dressing on the side? This is going to be harder than I thought.

 “I just don’t trust fat asses to report back to me honestly,” he claimed at their next session. “I don’t care how dedicated they are. There’s bound to be slip ups here and there…and Jeff doesn’t do slip ups.”

Anne’s self-worth dwindled dramatically. She was starting to realize that she wouldn’t be able to do this forever. This weight is a lot to lose. And I still love food. That love affair will always be number one in my heart. Why am I doing this to myself?

“Screw this!” Anne screamed, jabbing the STOP button on the treadmill with her pointer finger. “I QUIT!”

“Oh no you don’t, fat ass. No one quits on Jeff. You’re sure as hell not quittin’.”

“Watch me, jerk.”

With that, she stormed out of the cardio area and into the locker room. Once there, she got onto the scale and weighed herself one last time. 147. Still not enough flab gone. I can’t stand this.

She left the locker room and skulked back to Jeff, her head hanging in shame.

“I can’t quit. I have so much weight left to lose. I know that,” she said, sighing and climbing back onto the treadmill.

“Damn straight you do,” Jeff said, punching the buttons to set the speed and incline. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you look okay. Okay is not perfect. Jeff doesn’t stop until his people are perfect.”

On the walk home from the gym, Anne stopped and looked at her reflection in a store window. Maybe I do need a new attitude. It probably doesn’t help that everyone around me only agrees with me when I say I’m fat. Every time I tell myself that, I hear Mom, Linda, and Jeff screaming back at me.

Anne turned away from the window, her eyes not leaving her reflection. Without a word, a man walked into her, knocking her over and startling her out of her self-pitied daze. She looked up, assuming he would have continued past her. Instead, she was looking into the blue-gray eyes of a handsome stranger. His hand was outstretched towards her and he gestured, helping her to her feet.

“Hi, I’m Steve,” he said, straightening his glasses as Anne brushed herself off.

“Anne,” she replied, turning away.

Steve stopped her. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Anne?”