Tuesday, January 15, 2013


One thing I learned about myself is that I never know where that figurative inappropriate sexual line is until I've clearly crossed it, or at least until the person I tried to cross it with told me.  Now that I've found my perfect deviant partner, will we know if we've crossed that line?  Does the line move simply because of what's acceptable and arousing to both of us? When does healthy cross over into unhealthy? Last night was tons of fun, we both enjoyed ourselves thoroughly while flirting with the taboo.  Nothing crazy. Nothing I would categorize as crazy, though you may. I love that I found someone to which I can tell my inner most sexual secrets.  Someone who is just as sick as I am.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Let's start over, shall we?

I have words and phrases floating around my head and no place to put them. I want to be a writer. I desperately want to create profound prose that moves you to tears. That makes you think.  I try to take the nonsensical thoughts and to string them together to produce something with substance. I fail. The simple act of taking thoughts and typing them out is an impossible task. I type and delete. I type and re-word. I move things around and check for errors.  I'm never satisfied even when I think I am.

I want to tell you about my job.  How I lie, cheat and steal.  How I sell my soul almost daily and earn close to nothing for the ethical turmoil.  I want you to feel the distress in my writing. I want you to hate me for what I do and love the fact I'm good at it.  I want to be the antagonist.  I want you to feel no sympathy yet wanting to know more.  I want you to know how I can make money appear and your home disappear in a few clicks of my mouse.  I want you to know I try to be moral.  I don't want you to believe me. I want you to see a piece of humanity in me when I actually do the right things for the right reasons.  I want you see how rare that is.

I want to tell you how how motherhood is for me.  How I love my child yet resent almost weekly.  I want you to identify and scream "ME TOO!" I want to tell you all the things we deal with and how strong I think I am.  I want you to feel sorry we have rough times. I want you to love us and feel a part of our family.  I want to update you on doctor visits and new diagnosis.  I want to tell you funny things my child says and the bad things he does.  I want you laughing at our mishaps and crying over our troubles.

I want you to know I'm sober.  How I wish I wasn't and yet love the life of recovery I live.  I want you to be curious how I got here and why I choose to get clean.  I want to you agree it's for the better but secretly hope to hear a war story.  I want you to hate who I used to be and love me for who I hope to become.


"You look a little thick, that's something a cocaine diet can fix."

Sick thoughts never leave.  They may not come as often now, but they'd always be there.  Today they arrived in full force, actually sounding like a good idea. The most rational thought I've had all day.  Too bad that's not allowed. I'm annoyed. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't use and at that moment I wish I hadn't; I wish I could still do a coke binge and drop a couple of pounds. I can justify it as not using, it's strictly a diet aid.  I promised I wouldn't.  I feel so ungrateful for this body.  When did I begin this sick game with myself?  When did I stop loving what I look like and begin the weight obsession   Nothing fits "fat" correctly, which is the price to be paid for such shameful and unhealthy behavior.  I'm down a lot, down more than I have ever been down, doing it the right way.

Doing it right with hard work and doing it wrong the easy way have the same results.  I'm just enabling my laziness   "Big and Beautiful" is everyone but me as far as the self confidence, the love of one's self.  Oh how I'd be happy if I could love who I've become and be proud of the fat that I shed.   Weight is a number, a size, a lifestyle.  A being that is ok for you but not me.  Why is every mirror in my house a fun-house mirror?  Why can't I see what you see?