Sticks and Stones Will Break My Bones

When I am nervous, when I am stressed, when my confidence is bruised, when I’m trying too hard or spinning too fast, I think, in rhythms, over and over: not good enough. Do it better. Try harder. Go faster.

In these times, the focus is control.

At my best, I don’t worry about pulling everything tight. I wake a little later. I unwind in front of tivo instead of my laptop. I revel in a piece of dark chocolate. I don’t need makeup and i’m satisfied with the first outfit I put on. i don’t rush, I have time to be by myself. Hunks of time, where there are pieces big enough to stretch out, savor, alone.

At my worst, I’m late for everything despite waking up before my alarm clock. I work harder than other days and it’s not good enough.

on these days, I open my eyes and immediately put both hands on my hip bones. It’s important to measure my hips and their bones. Feeling sharpness there is good. Feeling full flesh before bone is not.

On strong days, I want to be healthy and there isn’t room to worry about hip bones.

On other days, hips are very important. A measure of strength and focus and dedication.

On strong days, I try new foods and savor the taste and don’t worry that people are doubting my discipline.

Other days, everything is measured against the potential to put on a pound. What will people think about that visible weakness. Failure. Letting the details slip.

I should have married a man who made me forget to check my hipbones.

Six weeks before the wedding, my mom went with me to a dress fitting. She had tears in her eyes when I slipped my clothes off, before I stepped in the dress. “Don’t lose anymore weight, hon,” she said. I had marks for my ribs and my hips were at their sharpest.

Break Down.
Don’t You Break Down.
Listen To Me
It’s Just A Ride
Don’t Dry Your Eyes

I have a best friend with a broken heart and it’s sucker punched me back to august, when my marriage ended in one fast minute.

She was officially the first to see me, tear-streaked and faded and weak. She was sitting on the porch when I pulled into her driveway, holding out an icy drink. There was homemade guacamole in the fridge. Pajamas clean and folded. She let me sleep in her big bed with her.

Early the next morning, she didn’t cringe or scold or judge when I crept outside with her cordless phone and called my husband, crying, begging him to talk to me, tell me why, tell me he loved me. She handed me a cup of coffee when I came inside and used “he was never any good on the phone” as a gentle intro to what she said next: “You deserve so much better than this.”

She was right.

I’m in brazil and I can’t hand her a drink or tuck her in or sit on her deck while she plants flowers in her perfect garden. I can’t do anything to splint her wings or underline all the things that make her strong.

A few weeks after I moved out, I was here, in this very room in this very hotel, looking out the window at this biggest longest city I’ve ever seen and crying because my husband wouldn’t pick up the phone and call me. I left him messages. I sent him long emails about what he meant to me, how I couldn’t imagine a life without him. He answered with short notes saying he didn’t want to have some big serious talk but he’d love to go out for wings sometime, a weeknight. He missed having dinners with me.

I stopped sending messages months ago. Stopped wanting to tell him things. Stopped wanting him to listen. Stopped wanting to hear from him. Started feeling revolted that i'd ever been with him at all.

And his tone hasn't changed at all. The only difference is that now, his drivel comes in floods:
Will I meet him for salad?
For a drink?
To talk?
Is that my new car in the parking lot at the gym?
Have I seen the new show about models on MTV?
Guess what? I’m on an airplane to florida. Track my flight, you know how I hate to fly!

Tonight, I stood in front of the window and saw big brazil again. Without tears, it’s the same scene, but markedly different. Brighter. Longer. Bigger. Unblurred.