megmac45

[megmac45]

Selfish

I am figuring it out. I will never apologize for that. I cannot. I am selfish and I own that. Why would I apologize for being selfish in a time of my life where the best thing I can do for my own growth is be selfish. What will I have to offer myself, others, those who could depend on my years down the line if I do not invest in myself now?

Everything he says makes sense. It all adds up to this equation I have been stringing together which makes up the perfect man, the ideal partner. 

Educated, smart, intellectual, introspective, caring, genuine, funny, father-material, handsome, outgoing. 

He is a catch. 

And, really fucking into me. 

But, I cannot get myself to that level of being ready for that sort of potential.

I am not ready, not myself yet, or ready to be a version of myself I could see with someone so ideal.

And, maybe ideal is the wrong word. Afterall, he is a person before he is a future. But, still, his potential is what scares the hell out of me. 

24. 

Not the age I want to be married, but the year I want to be focusing on work, reading books, fucking around with a co-worker and being comfortable with him, because I know he isn’t the one, but he is the one right now. 

Not permanent, but temporary. Just what I need.

And, to be frank, I have never been one for permanence. Permanent does not work for me. Never has, and might not  ever.

Maybe it will. I am still figuring it out. 

My mind jumps from one idea to the next, one dream to another. And, right now, I’m content with where I am at, mostly because I am tied to nothing outside my dog and a job I love. 

I owe nothing to anyone outside love and respect to family and friends. 

And, even there, I fuck up now and then. 

Emphasis on the now, lately. 

I am figuring it out. I will never apologize for that. I cannot. I am selfish and I own that. Why would I apologize for being selfish in a time of my life where the best thing I can do for my own growth is be selfish. What will I have to offer myself, others, those who could depend on my years down the line if I do not invest in myself now? 

#discover #comingofage #chemical hearts #find yourself #happiness #beyourself

[megmac45]

Microwave Clocks

Right now, she is asleep in her bedroom, windows cracked to let the summer air is followed by a breeze of wind to bring relief. Her frail body takes up a fraction of the king bed, the other half covered by swimsuits too large for her, Summer clothes I still look at with envy. 

At one point or another, I get to decide whether or not I will let resentment rule my mother and I’s relationship. 

Any sane human would say no, do not let it rule you two. 

Anyone who knows us might say, how could you not? Look at you two.

Sometimes it is intentional, more often time not. 

She is naive about her own actions until I play them out on her behalf. After all, I am a creature of habit. 

We all are. 

She likes to open the microwave before it finishes the cycle. Leave 4 seconds on the clock, and let the four seconds sit there until the next person goes to use the microwave and bugging gets frustrated as to why the buttons are not working, then eventually realized the clock needs to be cleared because someone left four seconds on the clock. 

It never bothered me before, because I did it too. Thought nothing of the thing. Then I moved in with my best friend. It bothered her incessantly. I’d be in the bathroom, and she would yell my name, one quarter joking, three quarters annoyed. 

Eventually, I learned. I stopped. 

Now, I am back home and every time the damn clock is left with four seconds on the clock, I want to scream out her name. 

Resentment builds. 

We sit down for dinner, lately at the kitchen island. Me in the middle, Mom on my left and Dad on my right. This is not our usual dynamic, never was, never should have been. 

Patrick is away at school, 500-piece puzzles take up residence on our kitchen table, and rather than look at each other, we look straight ahead at the kitchen cabinets and out the two-pane kitchen window onto the dogs chasing birds away from the bird feeder. 

Then again, I take that back - Dad and I look straight ahead. Mom looks to her left, inserting herself into my space of privacy, interjecting the conversation with ‘what’s and whys’ with linguine half-chewed in her mouth. 

She slurps on her food. 

She talks with her mouth full. 

She talks with her mouth half-full. 

She makes this lip-smacking sound when her mouth leaves the glass of milk or Coke Zero she is drinking. 

She sticks her lips to her bowl of pasta, washing down remnants of her meal. 

Resentment builds.

I do not think it is intentional. At least, I do not want it to be. I love her. This may seem skewed, a little fucked, or maybe even a scapegoat for everything else I have written. 

It is not. 

Resentment also deteriorates. 

I come home from taking the dogs out before dinner, the smell of sauteed onion and pancetta fill the air. To my right, Dad sits in his cheer, a book in his hand, and chocolate milkshake with a purple straw on his side table. To my left, My mom’s frail figure takes up the whole room.

Walking toward the kitchen, she lets out a howl, sticks her wooden spoon at me, moves her body left and right. From sauteing to dancing, she switches back and forth, never forgoing her attention to detail on cooking the Fatima. 

Annie Lennox blares over the house speakers, and I watch her move. 

She is in her element, who am I to disturb it? 

Watching her now, resentment washes away.

Who am I to judge a woman who raised our family?

Who am I to shame her for doing it wrong? She had not raised one before?

Who am I to negate her experiences and laugh at her flaws and imperfections?

I am her daughter. 

She, my mother. 

I am her, and yet, I am none of her. To resent her is to resent my own existence. 

Resentment builds, and so does it deteriorate. 

So, maybe I will let it burn. Watch it deteriorate. 

#mother #motherhood #daughter #family #relationship #pain #reading

[megmac45]

A Boy’s Girl

She has this way about her. They gravitate toward her. Maybe it is intentional on her end, maybe she is blind to it. 

Looking at her now, I think she is blind in it. She is so lost within herself, I don’t think she notices the outside world’s reaction to her living presence anymore. 

I see her talking to this shadow lurking behind her. 

She looks better now. 

Not the same as before and not where she should be. But, better. 

Whether she notices it or not, we notice her. 

We see her smile from ear to ear when Will runs over and scoops her up, Terrance and Andrew the following suit. 

The girls and I hang back, smile, and run over to her after the boys find it in them to let go of her.

Each one of them.

She’s always been a boy’s girl. I used to think she wanted the attention.

I still do.

But still, I run over and hug her. I celebrate her being here. 

Here in the apartment, yes, but really, I celebrated her being here, on Earth.

She is small. But, she is here. 

Her voice booms the way it used to. The last time I saw her, her voice shook. 

4 months ago.

The last time I saw her was four months ago and I hadn’t seen her since. She disappeared.

Some say rehab, others say drugs. Looking at her in the entryway of Andrew’s apartment I think if I asked her where she has been the past four months she would say “I don’t know.”

“Finding myself,” maybe. 

Now she is here, though. 

Different.

And, still the center of attention. 

#belonging #findyourself #eating disoder recovery #eating disoder thoughts #friends #reunion

[megmac45]

Curvature

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? Or, maybe you’ve got that creative mind that takes it back to the 1700s and you watch them drown, from afar? 

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 reach 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 her 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,” she repeats. 

*

“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 crew neck sweater and leggings. 

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

Two minutes later, I watched my girl walk out in the Lulu lemon 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 know you didn’t. Meg, no offense but, your co-workers, your peers, your sorority sisters, what the fuck is next? The goddamn red journal you hug to your chest every time you glance my way?” I started to let the tension rise to the surface. “Is this some sort of comic-con adventure where the heroin cures the villain? Meg, you are no heroin and I am no villain. Do you see who you are? Your shell could not replace the essence of any superwoman. You signed up for me, and I signed up for you. Ursula to Ariel style. Your voice is mine, my body yours.”

Meg apologized. 

I won.

#belong #find yourself #eating disoder thoughts #anorexia #bullima #recovery #hope

[megmac45]

Blue Eyes

Some Brooklyn apartment, the kind of residence that read, “My Dad pays my rent,” and these plaid pants cost more than your rent. The sort of residence transformed from something ghastly to breathtaking. 

Something disguised from the appearance it once held. 

Like blue eyes.

In the light, they reflect this portrayal of beauty and pull you in. Then, night falls, and it all goes dark.

Usually, I pushed his eyes out of memory. Sometimes, I revisit it with a glass of wine. 

A glass of wine and my keyboard are often the only way I can force words out. 

Or at least, words I could not find that night. 

We started with Mexican food in Williamsburg.

One where the drinks were cheap, and your older friend’s expired license did just the trick. 

I told myself one drink but had two. Then two turned into two glasses and a tequila shot. And without hesitation, the suggestion we head back to Hannah’s apartment to continue the night. 

Even though I was supposed to be on a ‘diet.’

Even though I told myself no more men. 

Even though, in my gut, something pulled on me that night begging me not to go. That��s the thing about gut feelings; they tug at you when you least expect it. 

Sean, presumably Irish, carried himself in a way you would seem silly not to pay attention to him. He knew his blue eyes threatened each girl who walked into the apartment. His eyes made you cross a room and start talking to a stranger. 

Two hours later, stripped down to the choker around my neck, I could not find the courage to look him in the eyes. He searched for some approval, but my eyes lost all means of communication. Somehow, I ended up here. 

But, I could not figure out how. 

He allowed his eyes to decide based on the frame in front of him and used his hands to manipulate the outcome. 

Numbness overcame the shallow shell I became. Each thud forced me to close my eyes. Each pull on my hair caused a crease in my brow.     

At one point, he tried to look me in the eyes. 

How dare he? 

Why would he?

I didn’t want to be there. 

I lay in his bed, completely numb. I felt like a dead body, someone who had no life in her. 

The only thing between me and hell laid in-between my legs.     

It hurt. 

Tears fell down my face, and I had no idea how to stop them. I had no idea what to do, so I kept on crying. 

Eventually, pulling away, his blonde hair shined on me next to the light coming in from his Brooklyn apartment. He tried to show some ounce of comfort. As if there was an explanation for my loss of words met by his actions of assumption. 

The blue eyes I tried so hard to avoid pierced me. Just the way they got me in this mess still half-wrapped over my body.

He had blue eyes. 

Later on, a scramble to get dressed and an Uber. He stared at me, utterly unnoticing of the tears falling from my face. 

“I didn’t notice your blue eyes,” he said. 

Facing the mirror that hung from the ‘Daddy pays my rent’ bedroom door, I looked into my eyes and forced a smile for him. 

I will never forget yours, I thought.

[megmac45]

Kim Possible

He’s on the phone with Charlie, the production manager from Farm Aid in his office, and I stand outside his hallway and grab at the door to give him some space for guy-talk. 

He doesn’t get much of it. Lately, he lives with his wife of 25 years and his 23-year-old. 

Sitting on the toilet, relieving the glass of wine and Spiked Seltzer from earlier, I hear Dad joke to Charlie about saving his wife - the love of his life, my mom, Sue, the stress of having sex since he’ll be out of commission for the next few weeks. 

Dad’s brain surgery is next week. 

He has Olfactory Neuroblastoma, that rare, rare, good kind of shit that God saves for the lucky ones. 

At least - that is how I’m phrasing it. 

Dad laughs to himself after joking about his soon to be lack-luster sex life with my mom and jumps into asking Charlie about his life, and, at this point, I laugh to myself. 

My Dad has cancer, and it is the last thing he wants to talk about. 

I think in large part it has to do with the fact my mom tends to be on the hyper-emotional, let’s get the casket ready now versus the later side of things but, I think it also has to do with his tendency to avoid emotions. 

Maybe that relates to my mom and I’s tendency to fall in love with men who fall emotionally unavailable or hard to reach.

Either way, it’s a thing, and my Dad is in a leave a message at the beep kind of mood right now. He will get practical with me and talk about the logistics of having brain surgery, but I can’t reach him emotionally.

I wonder if my mom can?

I wonder if Charlie, his buddy from Farm Aid, can?

I wonder if anyone can?

I can’t. And it sucks. 

[megmac45]

The Hunt

Or was it the cookies?

Yup, the cookies. 

I was okay with one. Because that was a step, to begin with for me. It progressed in a direction I ran from before. The thing about recovery is, people often think, once you’re ‘in it,’ you have magical superpowers allowing you to want all the cookies you wish to without any of the added setbacks to come. 

The cookies were supposed to be singular. Then, they became plural. After Kit left, the plural turned into a dozen. Then the dozen turned into that and half a pint of ice cream mixed in with some coconut granola because it was the only sweet thing I could find. Then the granola, ice cream, cookies, and drunken Meg ran to the porcelain throne.

From there, the experience felt like a christening experience. My new apartment had not witnessed the onslaught of ‘the hunt’ before, so I gave it a show. 

Last night, I walked myself into an open field surrounded by lions in all directions. It seemed as though Martha multiplied, growing in number only to remind me,

“I am still here. I’ll be watching you.”

So those efforts of recovery, the productive therapy session I had on Wednesday afternoon, the homework to ‘let my binge sit with me rather than purge after,’ well, they flushed down the drain with the bait Martha dangled in front of me.

[megmac45]

Her

I try to imagine her hungover at an ex-lover’s apartment, scrambling to pick up her clothes, half awake, and half drunk.

I try to imagine her at a bar, high as a kite, with her friends after work.

There are a lot of things try to imagine. Trying to imagine her as an adult in her twenties is the only thing on my mind lately.

Did she drink?

Did she have she?

Reckless sex?

With strangers?

Did she get high?

I know she got high.

Did her and her mother, my Mimi, scream at each other?

What was it?

I wonder what she thinks of me on the same parallel.

Does she think I was a slut?

Does she think I drank/drink too much? I know she does, scratch that.

What, in her head, defines the 23-year-old woman I am today that makes me different from herself, 37 years ago?

There is this sky-high wall standing between my mom and I’s emotional balance. Neither one of us are able to cross it, and each time we climb 15 feet, we fall to the bottom,

#relationships #pain adult life daughter

[megmac45]

Chapter 78

Is it ok to be this sad? Without reason, without cause, without any intention of finding joy? I’m here right now. Not sure when exactly it will change - unsure if I want it to. Whenever I confront, my foot gets stuck in my mouth, paralyzed and incapable of budging the smallest bit. I’m going to stay here for now. Let a blanket of invisible tears hold me tight, numb and unsure just a little bit longer.

[megmac45]

If she wants to pick a fight, I told myself I could win this one. She’s been winning way too fucking long- playing the victim card, sinking into her depression, leaning on alcohol and diets as crutches.

I called her out on it. I asked her where her son was, the one who was home from spring break and partying with his friends. I asked her who caught the first bus she could hours before to be with family. I asked her why I was never enough.

It kept unfolding, the screaming didn’t even feel like screaming anymore. I could never be the daughter my mom wanted me to be because my mother never loved me the way a daughter should be loved.

[megmac45]

[megmac45]

Mothers & Daughters

She stumbled into Mimi’s bedroom, high off her ass, looking for a fight. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly where she wanted to go with this. She asked why I spent the night eating dinner with family in town as opposed to standing by my mother’s side at the hospital.

Her voice grew more and more. She told me I didn’t do enough. She told me, dropping everything in New York and being in Massachusetts six hours later, with a backpack and in the clothes I half-ass dressed myself in didn’t make up for leaving her at the hospital.

I started screaming at her. I let loose.

Fuck this.

If she wants to pick a fight, I told myself I would win this one. She’s been winning way too fucking long- playing the victim card, sinking into her depression, leaning on alcohol and diets as crutches.

I called her out on it. I asked her where her son was, the one who was home from spring break and partying with his friends. I asked her who caught the first bus she could hours before to be with family. I asked her why I was never enough.

It kept unfolding. I could never be the daughter my mom wanted me to be because my mother never loved me the way a daughter should be loved.

I was the punching bag for all of the issues she refused to deal with in her life.

I tried my best to fight back, to say anything that might hurt her. But dammit, grief brings out the meanest parts of ourselves, and even then, in the moments of inconsolable grief, I had no fucking chance.

There were no closing remarks, no apologies or I love Yous.

She simply looked at me, said I was a poor excuse for a daughter and walked out the door.

I let her grief hit me like a rock, knocking me to the floor.

I could already hear her bounding down the stairs and the door slamming behind her. I could barely hear the screams my uncle let out toward my mother as she started her car and drove away. I couldn’t even hear my aunts run up the stairs and her drop to the floor.

My aunt held me the way a mother should hold you.

The way my mother should have held me.

She called my dad. She held me while telling him what was going on. He could hear my sobs in the background, he tried telling me everything was going to be okay

He tried to talk me down, reassure me none of this was my fault.

“She will always take her own insecurities out on you,” he said.

That phrase is written down in my journal. I don’t want to forget it.  

“She will always take her own insecurities out on you,” he said.

[megmac45]

[megmac45]

Self Prescribed Self Help Book

Self-help books, memoirs, and classics seem minor compared to the collection of notebooks taking up space on my bookshelf. Conversations between Martha and I.

The red one stood out sheerly for the creased binding and coffee stains from morning writes. The red one traveled across the country with me, from Nashville to New York, Massachusetts, and California. The red one, was where Martha formed a voice and I lost my own.

In August of 2016, I moved to New York City.

Subconsciously, I knew moving myself to a city of isolation made it possible for Martha to emerge, and Meg to let go.

I tried to convince Martha’s counterparts seemed normal. Leaving meals to eradicate any emotions I had left were just growing pains. Entering a trance of fixation, almost inescapable, was something normal 20-year-olds went through. Watching your own anger boil onto the skin of your own roommate's was just the pains of living with others.

Martha helped me build the walls of isolation. She held my hand as we threw away bags of groceries. She rubbed my shoulders encouraging me to tell your friends you couldn’t go to dinner. She spoke for me, telling my parents everything was alright.

The story continues and come to Jesus moments were met with shouts of defiance on my own end and Martha’s.

[megmac45]

Red Spine

“Read through your journals,” she said.

“Do not put the red binding down until you inhale each line on your body you so clearly despise.  Let it settle. Each sentence scribbled on the notebook you cannot seem to live without came from you. Let those lines take control. To the point where emotions only reflect suggestion and orders turn into demands. And for God’s sake, Do. Not. Turn. Back. I will carry you from here on out.” she said.

Martha told me to read through my journals. And here I am, reading the spine of a woman with clear intentions and an abusive mindset. Oblivious and naive barely scratch the surface of how unaware I was as Martha lead my pen through that damn scarlet journal.

She has a way with words. A way of turning thoughts into actions and actions into regrets. A way of disguising lies and manipulation with trust and faith.

I fell for it.

[megmac45]

Magic Numbers

Magic numbers are kinda my thing.

Originally, 12 stole my heart.

My older and younger brother sported #12 on their hockey jerseys, and I would cheer from the stands.

12 seemed like a solid number.

But eventually, all good things come to an end.

Adios numero 12.

People always asked me to a pick a number one through ten.

I picked two.

Two and I became buds. She eventually adopted her own name and rental space in my brain, with her own agenda to go along with it.

Two became the shrewd friend you always told yourself you would never befriend but, psych, here you are.

[megmac45]

Found in Class Notes

You ask how I’m doing and I will tell you, “fine.” 

Truthfully, I am fine. I wake up every morning in decent health, I brush my teeth, I am passing (barely) my classes, and I am moving through the motions of the day. That constitutes ‘fine’.

If we talked about it I am well, I put a pause on our conversation. I think about it.

I’m not sure how I wired my mind to the place it is today. But, if you took a look in my head, at this very moment, it’s hundred of loose wires looking for the plug they were once attached to. It’s a free for all and a mess.

That does not constitute ‘well’. 

#me #mental health #deppression #anxiety #health & fitness