Post Gluttony Guilt

You can always tell how bad something is for you by how good it feels.

And I am probably going to die fat.

 

I can’t believe that in this day and age food still has calories, that make people fat.

How is it possible that with all the medical advances made, we still have no cure for cancer, no cure for AIDS, and no cure for weight gain and obesity???

On the one side of the world we have people dying from FAT. Literally dying from McDonalds overdose. From blocked arteries and high blood.

And on the other side of the world people die of starvation.

It’s like when you try to put cold, hard butter on a sandwich and it won’t spread.

You end up with a big chunk of butter in one area, and even though you practically break the bread trying to spread it evenly, you still have parts of the slice that are dirt dry and bare.

I once read that we should be able to donate fat the way we can donate blood.

 

#fatmustfall

Surrender

Heavy of heart

She hangs her head
Hurting with a grief she can't share
Hiding an ache she can't bear.
Hear her tears splat on her prayer mat
As she serves her battered soul into the hands of her Lord.

Loneliness, like a snake

slitters through the empty caves of her heart.
While Fear's fangs choke at her throat.
Despair lay anywhere it dare
Since hope had fled.

But like autumn leaves she surrenders
Her will and her woes,
Waiting for winter's wind
To blow her burdens beyond yonder.

He is beautiful. He deserves love

He’s lovely. Beautiful. Inside and out.

Troubled.

I could hold him like a child. I want to protect him and change the world to make him happy.

But he’s strong. Has had to become strong to deal with life he was dealt.

It hurts me that he hurts.

I feel as if I could go to war, to fight anyone who threatens his happiness. I know I sound crazy.

Once again he’s world has gone dark and he withdrew. From me too.

I worry that I am part of the problem, I worry that he’s hurting. I worry about what the hurt is doing to him.

I adore him.

Have you ever wanted happiness for someone else so intensely, even though you have nothing, absolutely nothing, to benefit from it.

 

He needs to be loved. He deserves to be loved.

 

 

Unworthy

In the quiet moments I cry.
When there's no one around
I need to be strong for.
No one I need to fool
into believing I am fine.
These moment are rare
When I can bare my breaking soul
The walls of an empty house.
I want to beg God to fix this.
Heal the hurt and save my marriage.
But I feel unworthy of God's favours
Instead I pray in a puddle of my own tears for forgiveness.
Forgive me for grieving for that which has been taken from me.

One day

Will you wake up one day
And wonder what went wrong?
Want us back?
Wish you never let us go?

Would you then regret the day
You threw us away?

Would you ever spare us a thought
Too caught up in your joy?
Your freedom. Your life.

Are you happy to let your son
Place his hand in the hand
of another man
to lead him through life's lessons
the way a father aught to?

Some day, when the fun is done
And you realise there's no one left to impress would you confess
That you knew how much you hurt us?

A muted ache

A muted ache and a confused heaviness. That's what I feel. 

Trying to decide if the reason I'm not crippled by pain is because I don't really believe the signs, or because I've been desensitised. Been hurt so deeply so often that I barely flinch these days when he brutally grabs and rips at my heart. I hardly have tears left to shed.
These a measure of anger at being so publicly humiliated. But thankfully the Lord has numbed me somewhat so that the heartbreak no longer stops by breathing. No longer brings me to my knees.
It's no answer though.
I need to move on.
He fools me into thinking all is fine.
All is not fine and I don't think it could ever be again.

Sensitivity subjectivity

There's sensitive skin. And then there's skin sensitive from shaffing. There are sensitive people who allow their feelings to be hurt by any little thing. And then there are feelings that have been bashed in repeatedly. My heart is scraped raw from you dragging it on the ground behind you. Carelessly or maliciously? I don't know.
Like a toddler tossing aside a toy that was once a favourite, but who is now infuriated at merely being reminded of its existence.
What a confusing experience: the icy shock of a burning slap. The lightheaded sensation of sinking heart. Choking on tears while silent screams ring through my head.
My heart breaks so loudly and echos through my hollow gut. But still you don't notice.
And that's why I always wonder. Am I just over sensitive?

Wilted

As sad as a wilted flower
Knee deep in foul water,
Leaves limp at my side
I bow my faded head.

Like an autumn oak
I age,
Like a desert river bed,
Dry and cracked

I am tired.
My youth spent foolishly
Following fancy
Finding my soulmate was a mistake.
Now a single flower no longer pretty,
Wilted and brittle
I lived so little
And gave my hand and my heart and lost my head in a fairytale.

A story with no happy ending.
A twisted tale that mothers never told little girls at bedtime. In other words, the truth.

Little by little, petal by petal, I come apart. Like a work of art deconstructed to the rotten, withered core.
A flower no more.
But a naked, thorny twig.
Who could even imagine what I once was.

Free ranger

They sure don't make men the way that used to.


A generation back men were far more robust and capable, not like these metrosexual mannequins of today.

Where are the guys who serviced their own cars? Who knew how to fix a leaking pipe. Or, at the very least, paint.


Men nowadays rely on a smart phone app to change a light bulb. These days the manly looking ones are gym grown, not free range authentics.

Where are the meat and potato men? Now it's all banting schmanting.


Hey, I'm all for men being sensitive and gentle. But when he's beauty products take up more space than mine in the cabinet we need to reassess the situation.


Evolution? More like disillusion.


I dunno nuh. I really dunno.

Shrouded in Sadness

She wears sadness like a shroud. A heavy woven shroud. Woven with the thread of tales of tears.

Fly away with me, from this dark night

I once watched a TV program about a mother who was imprisoned for killing her small daughter. You hear that and  obviously think that the evil bitch deserved it. Or worse.
But as the story unfolds you learn that the mother was sexually abused as a child. She never stood a chance. A sad victim of a sick world, with no love or guidance, ended up on the streets selling herself for food and drugs.
Falling pregnant was the miracle she needed to redirect her life. She clawed her way out of the world she knew and tried to create something better for her little girl.
But it was never easy. No money, no honest, marketable skill, no luck. But she kept trying. Because she loved her baby with all her heart and would rip out her own soul to spare her any pain.
She turns to social services for support. She has to prove she is deserving.  She has to prove she is fit.
And then creaps in corruption and sickness. The social worker assigned to her case is a filthy, sick bustard. Her situation, for him, is prime for exploitation. He forces her to provide sex to stay in his good books.
She had worked so hard to escape that life. But she has no choice. It nauseates her. She musters up the courage to refuse. But power and evil is stronger. He threatens to take away her daughter. Threatens to have her put away on fabricated charges. Threatens to make good use of her daughter while she was away. The same way she was used as a child.
And then on a cold dark night, as she hears him enter to her small apartment, hears the filthy things he plans to do to her and her daughter, she knows she's not strong enough to fight him. She knows if anything happened to her she wouldn't be able to protect her angle from a pain she knows one could never recover from. She could never bare to have her daughter suffer the soul crushing abuse she had to live through.
So she takes her darling's little hand. The hand of a little angle who loves and trusts her mother completely. Leads her to the bedroom window of her 3rd floor flat. They climb onto the ledge.

If you close your eyes and sing, hold my hand and jump, we will fly away like fairies, over the moon and to a wonderful fairyland where we will always be together. Do you love me?

I love mommy.

I love you forever my baby.

And they jumped.

Why am I lying on my bed on a Saturday afternoon spilling unstoppable tears on my pillow?
Why do I even spend time thinking of this story from so long ago?

Because I know how that mother felt, filed with love and fear and not knowing how to...

Trying to hide the crazy from my children I lock myself in the toilet to cry. "Cry" doesn't describe the gut wrenching pain that tries to break out of me. I worry that I might choke trying to swallow my grieving howling.

I am trying so hard to be a good mother. Trying so hard to put together the broken pieces of my bloody life. To be whole and good for my children. To give them better than I had.
But... so many challenges. Demands. Stubborn, brutal dominance. I could grow to hate at this rate. My heart aches with sadness and my stomach burns with anger at those who won't allow me to...

I can understand the mother so desperate to escape. All I want is a chance for peace and happiness.

If you're wondering, the mother survived that fall. Well her body did. Her heart and mind and soul probably did fly off to fairyland with her daughter. 

Anecdotal antidote

To calm the nausea she writes.
But it doesn't help like it used to.
Like a resistance to a drug too often used.
Why do they say you feel emotions in the heart?
It's the stomach.
You feel happiness and sadness
and excitement and anxiety
all in the stomach.

Nauseating disappointment... Again

It's not from lack of medication. It's not because my chemical coma has worn off. It's not the monthly melancholy my fairer sex suffers. It's an unexpected and indescribably painful disappointment.
A disappointment in him. 
It's taking a bend and finding myself staring down a miserably familiar road.
A road I don't think I'm strong enough to travel again.
A road I don't feel I should have to travel again.
Nor will I wait on this spot for him to return from his detour. Go ahead on his merry way he may, but I can no longer entertain this foolishness. 
Not again. Not anymore.
I'm instantly nauseous. Nauseous as the recollection of humiliation washes over me. 
Always falling short.
Beating myself up for not being what he wants.
Well Fuck That.
Really, really truly FUCK YOU. 
Fuck off too.
God, I hold my own hands to restrain myself from slapping his shinny bald head.
I want to hurt him so badly that it hurts me to hold it back. 
I want to hit him so hard that he'll suffer brain-damaged - permanently disabling his "I am a dwoos" lobe.
Take a breath and push the bitterness deep down into my gutt. 
Take a breath and remember that nurturing anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
But other than being angry, what am I supposed to do?
I don't know.
I only know that I can't do more of what we've been doing.

The curse of cancer

How my heart hurts. Tonight I grieve for people I've never met. I'm overcome with sadness for a woman whose life will never be the same, again. Through my tears I read of how the love of her life and the light of her soul was laid to rest today. A mother lost her only son. To cancer.
(I feel guilty for being grateful.)
My God, how do you deal with losing a 6 year old to cancer?
How do you as a mother recover?
You're never whole again.
How do you even pretend to be OK?
Mothers who have to bury their children should be able to choose to die and be buried with their babies.
God, though I can't comprehend your reasons I have to trust your wisdom and I pray for your mercy. Please, I beg, grant this mother peace in her heart. And I beg you God protect my children...  Protect my family.

Idiot

You called my son an idiot for bringing you a piece of toilet paper instead of a tissue to blow your nose. He's 8.

And if after 8 yrs of being a parent you still think it's ok to tell a child something like that then you're the idiot. The kind that could never be taught. Because you're a bitter, cruel, self centered asshole. 

But I'm an idiot too. What in the world made me think you were the one?

Since day one you've gone to great lengths to break me, damage and punish me. 

I could take it. But now you're lashing out at my children. 

For my bad choices I almost deserve your harshness. But they do not. They only want your love, your affection, your time. They don't deserve your moods, your temper, your wrath. 

My heart is frozen in fright at the thought of confronting you. That's because you're a bully.

But believe me. Your days are numbered. My patience runs out in proportion to my building nerve. Your rein as Failure Father of the Year will come to an end shortly.