Let Her Speak

The featured photo on this post is a photo of Martha and I – a photo of her and I together, inseparable.

Common decency? Not a thing in Martha’s book. Never has been, never will be. 

“Hey Meg, schedule a panic attack, binge and purge session, and three days of restriction to follow for next week. You fell behind last week with three cheat meals and two missed workouts. Okay?” Martha asked. 

Bitch wouldn’t even wait three seconds for me to answer. 

“You are killing it, Meg,” she followed up. 

And by it, she means me. 

I was killing me. 

What do you think about when you want to kill your worst enemy? 

Do you think about walking into their house and shooting them point-blank? Do you think about following their car down a dirt road and ramming into them harder than the head-on collision in the poorly recreated Footloose movie? Or, maybe you’ve got that creative mind that takes it back to the 1700s and you watch them drown, from afar tied to a wooden post in the middle of a lake. 

Which is it? 

How would you kill?

Martha chooses to drown her worst enemy. 

I’ll let her explain.

*

I wait for her eyes to seek me out, make me feel wanted. We lie looking at each other, my eyes analyzing her body, her eyes gazing up and down mine. I reach for her waist and let my hands fall to Meg’s hip bones. Traveling side to side, I let my hands glide up her waistline into the curvature of her collarbone. Meg arches her back inhaling and eventually sinking into the bed. Her exhale is slow, and breaths delayed. She looks at me, waiting for my hand to cross her body into a threshold of acceptance. 

I pause. 

I pull back. 

“Please,” she begs.

I retrace my steps, starting with her hip bone, following her waistline, and onto her collarbone. 

“No,” I whisper. 

“Please,” she is desperate. “Go slower this time.”

“Slower,” I whisper. “Okay.”

Once more, she turns me on while I pray to her needs.

“Okay.” I sing into her ear. 

The crease in her brow eases and her body releases tension better than any orgasm I have seen her experience in months. “Okay,” Meg repeats back to me. 

*

“Get dressed, Meg,” I tell her. 

She jumps out of bed, jubilant and jolly. Springing to the shower and leaping toward the walk-in closet. She bounces in front of me to Niall Horan’s Slow Hands, retracing the lines I drew on her minutes before.

“You love it when I trace you like that, don’t you?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. 

Meg learned early on, no reply is the best reply. 

“Meg. Please, go get dressed,” I whisper. 

A song and a half later, she opens her closet door and steps out in an over-sized blue crewneck sweater and leggings. 

“No,” I whisper in her ear. “Do better.”

Two minutes later, I watched my girl walk out in the Lululemon leggings that hold her ass just right and compress those boobs her mom passed onto her just enough. 

She searches for the same acceptance she sought earlier in the morning, looking for some sort of approval I was supposed to give. 

“Meg, why are you looking at me?” I asked. “I am a direct representation of you.”

Meg shook her head, apologizing profusely.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she cried. “I’m sorry.”

Damnit, Meg. She pulls this shit, plays the victim, and looks at me with tears in her eyes. I know she talks about me with others. I see her carry that damn red journal around with the tack Jane Austen quote on its cover. Lately, she confides more in the journal and less in me. Bullshit. 

She looked up one more time, searching for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. 

I won. 

You see, when Meg woke up earlier that morning, there was a moment where my hands paused somewhere below her bellybutton and between her hipbones. I felt the inconsistency. 

We both did. 

Typically, Meg lets her hands sit atop of mine on those early morning rendezvous, but that morning, she shied away. She faked it. It’s that therapy thing she is doing. She is letting them fill her head with lies. 

She was ashamed this morning.

She failed me.  We both knew it. 

She knew the punishment. 

When she went into the closet earlier that morning and threw on the oversized sweatshirt and leggings, it was not an act of defying her size, or that bullshit body acceptance her friends tried to preach to her. 

It was shame for gaining. 

It was shame for growing. 

Meg was failing me. 

Fat Jeans, what a bitch.

I wrote this a hot minute ago, back when I lived in East Nashville, where the Sun was warmer and the days were slower.

For the past month I have been in a writing workshop with one of my favorite authors – I feel spoiled to be apart of this group of women. So. Dang. Lucky.

Any-who! I wrote this two years ago. Recovery is still recovery and life goes on. None the less, when I read my writing from two years ago, my heart breaks for the pain I felt and at the same time wildly appreciates the honesty I managed to get onto paper.

My fat jeans last year are my skinny jeans this year.  

Hung from hangers in my closet are lifeless moments from years past. 

Size zero pants from the dirtbike in Western Massachusetts. 

A medium dress I wore partially because my body swam in it, unable to fill it out from Nicole’s wedding. 

Size two boyfriend jeans from the stuffed and bloated feeling that overcame me after dessert – one scoop of lowfat, non-dairy Halotop ice cream. 

Looking at my closet now, the hangers have more space in-between them. 

Size four, the fuschia Anthrpologie jumpsuit I wore for graduation with those strappy blue leather strappy heels Mom bought as a graduation from Able. 

27, the J.Crew jeans short my body quickly was growing out of, into something greater. 

My fat jeans last year are supposed to be my recovery jeans this year. 

My fat jeans last year are supposed to be ok with growing.

My fat jeans last year were never meant to be a size two from Gap. 

My fat jeans never should have existed. 

But, here we are, on my front porch in East Nashville, grown out of my fat jeans. 

Fat is a feeling my nutritionist tells me. 

Fine. 

I’ll rename that pair of jeans – my ‘I detest recovery jeans sometimes’ jeans. 

Is that better? 

My fat jeans last year do not fit me any more. 

That is okay. 

Because, I am okay. 

I am here.