My life has been a series of self-consciousness. I was in a dance class when I was four. Our show costume was this bright pink tutu and, even though that bubblegum pink color was my favorite, I dropped out the morning of the show because I looked like a huge bubble in the costume and I was embarrassed, even then. Innocence bubble popped. My mom tells this funny story about a birthday party, when I was still young enough to count on one hand, where someones mother found me underneath a table eating a bowl of candy by myself. I started hiding food at a very young age, convinced—if no one saw it—I didn’t have to own it. There would be no shame in food that no one else could quantify. I went from under-tables to behind closed doors. Eating in hiding, not eating at all; binging, purging…people often compare food to control but, for me, it was secrecy. I was proud when I was empty. When my stomach churned and grumbled, it was rerecording the voices in my head. My father’s go-to line, you ate yesterday, when I’d skewer salad onto my fork. I spent summers throwing up in the bathroom, to feel good in a bathing suit. School years drinking water and sucking on pretzels for food. Or eating a meal a day, only when someone was looking. Wrapping my thumb and middle finger around my wrists—feeling for bones, to feel small enough to be good enough. In college I only felt beautiful when I was still hungry. I let my eyes dull, my hair unravel, my nails brittle. When I grew jealous or afraid I was not enough, I would exercise harder, eat less. Spend summers watching other people eat. Exercising hours for carrots; burpees until I couldn’t see straight. I went to dance calls and left in tears, spilling my shame into the toilet; four years old, again, only now I felt like an elephant: clunky, too-big, too-wrong. I modified my life to fit into my mindset. I would never be thin enough or beautiful enough. I would never be able to dance. I started teaching, tiny. But the more stressed I became the more I turned to food. And the more I saw how my opinion mattered, the more I remembered who I had been in high school and what I had needed to hear. So I bought kale and broccoli and enough vegetables to start a small farm. I decided, if I was going to teach by example, I couldn’t just teach kindness and passion and words—I had to live by them. I had to treat myself with the kindness I hoped they would; nourish myself to nourish them. This summer, we’ve been traveling. We spend days exploring new states and people and nights playing shows in bars and coffee shops and places i’ve never heard of but am so grateful exist. I keep reminding myself that food is important. I have decided to eat donuts in every state and compare them. I spend hours making lists of places we have to see, and restaurants we shouldn’t miss. Convincing myself that, if I think it’s fun, I’ll be okay. So I’m eating and letting food anchor me to moments, to people, to life. But that doesn’t make it easy. I’ve started avoiding mirrors—I run in place. I keep food down. And I promise myself I’ll get back to a routine and be fine. We hike and I want to push myself further. I’m always too close to the edge. This is me in a bathing suit: after bbq in Texas, biscuits in North Carolina, Purple Drank in New Orleans, tacos in Tucson, hummus in Nashville, Eggs Benedict in DC, fried chicken in Atlanta---and donuts everywhere. I’m not comfortable with the way it looks. But I’m learning to be proud of my body. I’m sharing to own it. To beat shame. To turn guilt into gratitude; you ate yesterday into what will you do today?
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Dear Road,
I'm so enamored by you. You are full of signs to follow and turns to make. I didn't know how comforting the wheels would feel. How quickly hundreds of miles would pass from my window. Dear Donuts, Stop following me. And being so delicious. Dear Gin-Buddy, I only want to play with you; even when you win. Dear New Orleans, You're warm. I could dance to the jazz and tie the cherry stems, forever. Dear Nashville, You make for great BINGO. Dear Hummus, We could eat you every day. Dear Athens, You're a place of the gods, in the middle of Georgia. Dear Farmer's Markets, You're free breakfasts in samples and fresh berries. Dear Pens-I've-Stolen, You live at the bottom of my backpack, where I cannot always find you but need you. Dear Coffee Shops, Thank you for the free hot water and the various mugs and paper cups and game tables. Dear Stools and Carpets and Stages where I have sung, I am grateful for your wood and your rough and your four-legs. You are sturdy. Dear Amagansette, You let this mermaid swim in your waves, wake to your sunrise, laugh to your jokes. You are too many mosquitoes, not enough time, and just enough "fo shizzle." Dear Polka Dots, You're my favorite. Dear striped headband, You are the way I've chosen to hide my crazy hair. Thank your for making me fashionable (and saving me $10 on a fake-discount). Dear Suitcase, Living out of you is mess and fashion faux-pas but I wouldn't have it any other way. Dear Barn Shows, You sing ANNIE and THE WIZARD OF OZ and I want to nibble your cheeks. Dear Family, You are pretty spectacular. I'm lucky to know you. And grateful for your homes to stay in. Dear Strangers, I'm ever so surprised by your kindness. Dear Kayak, You were special. Dear Austin, You're movie nights and hillside shows and bar-b-q and Shiner and Springs in the middle of the summer. Dear Double-Rainbow, You were such a good omen. But I'm the luckiest. Dear I have never been the type to make waves. I used to believe that the entire ocean traveled towards the sky in one giant wave. That, no matter where you were, you'd feel the same micro-pulsation. But, when you look out at the ocean, five-feet tall, the waves seem to take from parts of the water and give to others; rolling across the deep blue, on a race to some sandy finish-line. No two people will have the same wave experience. Like two sides of a long-lost friend. Older still, I know that all a wave brings to shore is energy. Not a single drop of water from foreign bodies. It's an optical illusion, like tomorrow. I was swimming towards the frothiest parts of the water, catching my breath in heaping gulps that felt like promises too big to put down. When you're swimming towards the waves, you feel alive. The air above the water, healing. I've been chasing a good wave. The kind of wave that questions your existence; that pulls you from side to side; knocks the wind right out of you. If you stay under even a little longer, if there isn't time to breathe between the next wave; the kind of wave that might inhale you, for energy. Off the beach, waves are often frowned upon. Perhaps for their energy. Bringing too much of themselves to the shorelines, people often run away. It's no wonder the wave takes every last drop of its water back. Even the things most necessary to survive are rarely appreciated. So maybe I make more waves than I'd thought: just being a person seems to add a murmur to the universe. And maybe that is why some people grow silent, like the parts of the water that never seem to make any waves at all. Dear Dreams,
You ready? Dear Poems, I think it's time to brush you off. Dear Evan Hansen, Today is going to be a great day and here's why... Dear Old Navy, You were a good idea. Dear Mouthguard, You make morning kisses harder. But not impossible. Dear Glockenspiel, ding! Dear Supermodel, My favorite pose is the way you look at me when the camera's not snapping. Dear Boxes, How strange the way you hold the years as if they were tangible. As if it were only objects. Dear Watermelon, You make such a cute comeback, in the summertime. Dear Pretty Little Liars, You ended as you began. I couldn't escape you but I'm glad you're over now. Dear Hooky-Partner, The best days are had by accident, with you. Dear Ice Cream, I miss you as I desperately try to regain the figure I had seven months ago. Dear Barista Who Knew My Order Without Me Having to Open My Mouth, Thank you for seeing me. Dear Philly, You were a breath of love and a reminder of humanity. The place where the linear and curvilinear meet. Dayenu. Dear Baby Goats, I will love you forever. You have left arts and crafts paper, house lights, donuts, laughing tracks, and MLA citations where my heart once was. Dear Blonde Streaks, I could get used to you. Dear Closure, I'm not sure you ever come the way we want. But you start with goodbye. Dear 3-Courses,
You were dainty but delicious. You poked holes in my pockets but I'm happy to trade hard work for experiences these days. Dear Mango Margarita, I still think you're more exciting to say than dripping on my tongue. But you're frozen enough to make me pretend I'm five again. Dear Waitress, The gray-haired woman next to me, who thought I was ballsy for using the men's room during intermission, said it best: So. Much. Heart. Dear Graduation, A Masters Degree makes me no more equip to support my sadness. Dear Spring Skirts, You're good for twirling and weekend picnics. Dear Babies, Weekdays are brought to me by the letters Y-O-U. Dear Cinnamon Tea, Don't worry. As the days warm, I will still boil your water, wait impatiently for you to cool, and hide you away behind the laugh lines in my throat. Dear Prom Date, We're the greatest love story ever told. Dear Renaissance Faire, The stones said it best. Dear Mini-Ice Cream Cones, You're a tiny indiscretion. Everything tastes better in cones. Dear Deb Talan, I trust no one when I’m afraid, either. But we are Lucky Girls. Dear June, You're close. You mean the end of such much and the beginning of so much more. Dear 6 Months, You're not much in the scope of forever...but you've been everything since the first day the glass broke and the dreidel spun, and the bakery door swung open. Dear Rainy Blooms, Proof that things are still lovely, even when they're a little damp. The flowers (still) grow. I wake up around seven times a night. Sometimes more, sometimes less. I can't say I remember a time I slept peacefully for the quantities of time suggested by the National Sleep Foundation or my father. It's part of my sleep pattern, by now. Never quite a REM because there's always something I remember--a hook out of slumber. A reason to wake.
As a child, I'd listen to music to fall asleep. Eventually, the familiar hum of chords I knew and words I'd grown to expect would create a safe-nest. A lullaby for the listless. Each time I would wake, a chorus would swell and I would slowly find my way back to slumber. Sometimes I would pick up a book and read until my lids, purple and heavy, would shut. I survived the dark, the monsters, the day before. But some nights I did not sleep. I used to sleep with my arms and legs in straight-jacket mode: so tightly encased in my blanket that nothing could ever get in. Not nightmares, not bad thoughts, not bad people. It wasn't always an effective way to keep out the boogey-man. Neither was the dreamcatcher that jumbled my thoughts like Charlotte's Web into nothing so "radiant" or "wonderful." Now, I'm much more the Netflix & Chill variety. A plot that floats like a dream in the back of my overly-addled mind. Voices that murmur like old friends. I read an article in The New York Times a few months ago that reviewed papers published in a science journal about the power of sleep. This article, in particular, wrote that people sleep to forget. But I dream to remember. Bukowski said, "Too often, the only escape is sleep." That may be true. But I have always been happier in the here-and-now. As a child, my mother, when faced with any big decision would say "Let me sleep on it." And, by morning, like clockwork, she would have an answer to all of life's biggest questions. I have her enthusiasm, her smile, her thighs, but I never seemed to get the sleep gene and, while we are both afraid of so many things, I wonder why I'm so afraid to close my eyes. And to make decisions. I wonder if, subconsciously, I'm letting my night terrors affect my day-person. I know it works in reverse: I would wake up, unable to keep my lungs or heart from sinking, when my day-heart was breaking. Or are they one in the same? Is that why I'm so afraid of them? April's love letters being so tremendously delayed speaks volumes. Still far from the showers and the flowers, I am a mass of extremes---sorry/grateful, regretful/happy, (more on this soon). As I type belated love notes, a Ring-Pop on my ring-finger, I am reminded to think whimsy. Of all the reasons-I-have-to-be-happy-in-spite-of. Of all the happy-is-what-happy-does. Of all the hyphenated happiness.
Dear Spring Break, A breath of fresh air and extra doses of laughter. I had forgotten what it felt like when the weight was off my shoulders. Dear Kickstarter, You were a doozy: after days of making videos, I don't think I've ever laughed so frustratedly or grimaced so joyously. Dear Sunflowers, You were a good idea. Dear Brisket, I was overzealous and bought the whole thing. Thank you for not laughing at me as I spent all day asking you to cook faster. Thank you for letting me keep my Passover-Points. Dear Park Slope, You're a whole other world. Thank you for pie and adventures. Dear Amelie, You remind me of all the reasons I want to be a dreamer, even when times are hard. Dear Taxes, I don't really like adulting with you. But I can. And that's pretty cool. Dear Mama, I am the luckiest. You remind me how to smile, when the world feels too heavy. Dear New York, I love comfy pants and giant sweaters with you. Dear Peepano, (you're the) One. Dear Poem in Your Pocket Day, "I said to the sun/tell me about the Big Bang./ The sun said "it hurts to become."/I carry that hurt on the tip of my tongue." Dear Chocolate Lab, Will you be my puppy? Dear Lit Mag, I'm proud of you. Dear Thespians, I was an open palm; a heartbeat; pride personified. The bigger your twirls, your smiles, your voices--you are why I do this. You are all it's for. Dear Hair,
You will be in this bun until you grow. I don't hate you...I just need to get past this length, so we can be happy again. Dear Cooking Shows, You inspire me to buy fancy cooking gear and aspire to beating cute children with my culinary skills. Dear BBQ, I forget how delicious you are, until you hug my thighs. Can't wait to taste you back in Texas. Dear April Showers, You're early. Like Orpheus--and I, Eurydice, have desperately been seeking warmth. Dear Cheeto-President, Too many days and you have accomplished nothing. Mostly happy to report this, seeing as you have nothing redeemable to accomplish. Dear Thespians, So much pride. You are a world I am happy to live in. Dear Reading Apps, You brought me considerable joy. For a moment, all of life's problems felt so easy a caveman could do it. Wish your monotonous voice was a little more literate. Dear Chocolate Cupcake, I shouldn't. Dear Babies, I'm obsessed with your itty-bitty torsos and toothless grandpa smiles. Your tiny hands and saucer eyes. I hope the air is breathable and the people are kinder when you are old enough to walk on your own two feet. Dear Annie, Tell me more about "tomorrow." Dear Graduation Application, You're real. I'm almost master of something. Dear Cool-Cat, *butterfly wings* Dear Life, When it rains, it pours. Good is subjective. Happy is a choice. Dear Joshua Radin, You sing pretty lullabys. Dear Everyone, I am learning that I cannot make you happy. Dear Spring Break, Hurry. Dear Last Night, Some day, all of the thoughts that keep you up at night, all of the words that make you cry, all of the reasons you don't want to get out of bed...they won't be what you remember. Dear Future Me, Be kinder to you. Learn to let things go. Dear Weather,
When I don't consider how the globe is warming, or what future of melting ice caps looks like, I am so thankful for the sweater weather. I could use one more really pretty snow, if it isn't too much to ask...but I shouldn't be so greedy. Dear off-white chunky knit (with the stain on the arm), I am warmed by your history. I feel lucky to swim in you. Dear Sunglasses, You've reflected some pretty excellent images and you make me look cool. You're not so bad yourself. Dear Valentine, You make the Hallmark side of cards jealous. Let's walk 'til our shoes turn brown. Dear West Coast, You look so very welcoming. Dear Driving Lessons, Parallel parking is a b----. But I don't mind learning how to get places faster. Dear Rainbow Bagels, I will not consume you for fear of rainbow insides but you're magical and more exciting than the bagels I usually order. Dear Late Night Writing Sessions, Thank you for the belly laughs, productivity, and the warmth in my belly. Dear SNL, You're the best thing about our president. And Kate McKinnon, you are better at being everyone than everyone. Dear This is Us, I cry. Dear Mid-Winter Break, I took a breath. Dear Visitors, I loved. January has always seemed particularly grey. But this time, in spite of the looming presidency, the bitter cold, the fire alarm that keeps going off-- I keep finding the sunshine. Dear Sunflowers,
You were a good idea. Dear Sushi Guy, I like your hat (but you look better in it than I do). Dear Snow, You're wonderfully magic from the window but even more fun in Prospect Park with cider and your very own unicorn. Dear Tiny Children, When you play "Come Together" and the bass is bigger than your body, I think I know what I want to be when I grow up! Dear Barack Obama, Thank you for your service--for your kindness, for your honesty, for your heart. I will miss you indefinitely. Dear Apartment, You locked yourself. How could you? I thought we knew each other better than that. Dear Baby Goats, I am grateful for you. Dear Words With Friends, Gimme that triple word score! Dear Lunar New Year, My mama's a rooster. It's gonna be a good year (can't wait to celebrate you)! Dear Banana Bread, You are delicious and I am too gluttonous for you. Dear Hair, Grow faster. Dear Moving Parts, Please keep going. Dear Brain, Stop. Collaborate and listen. Dear Decisions, Please come faster. Dear Shark-Boy, Proud to be your Lava Girl. |
This is Me:Hi! I'm Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal. Married to my best friend and planning a lifetime of adventure! Archives
June 2023
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