Hand Over Mouth
It’s my favorite picture. The one with my hand over my mouth. Tears falling from my eyes that show a wild, joyous expression. Hand over mouth, with all my fingers glued together, a muzzle, a container of triumph as if it could burst through the seams; the mouth being the place where it leaks first. I selfishly hoard these sensations. Not an ounce of this jubilation to leave the body. The special kind of joy wanting to seep like an overstuffed suitcase you have to sit on to close the zipper. Screw the overweight baggage fee, I’m taking it all. No scraps or drops to be left behind.
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A Sound That My Brain Makes
You miss many calls when your phone is on silent. By you, I mean me. By phone I mean my brain. By silent I mean a muffle, a whisper existing behind a noise. By noise I mean a voice like drums playing in the musty basement by some angsty teenager—loud, burdensome, immutable. By voice I mean the sound that my brain makes when it feels unsafe. By sound that my brain makes I mean that singular obsession that has dictated the majority of my life’s trajectory. By singular obsession I mean that thing I have with my body. By thing I have with my body I mean the Eating Disorder that ate away at much of my life like a Pac Man in an arcade game.
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LoveBomber
He zeroed in on me, squinting his eyes, right eye squeezed tightly shut. A wink held with intention. His mouth watering, heart thumping, pupils dilated, precision and focus right on the bullseye-- the center target must have been somewhere on my chest. He knew how to aim; he knew what he was doing. This guy, he knew how to hunt. But this wasn’t some duck hunt. It was me he was after. He sat down, looked at me in the eye and said, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
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Illicit Island Secret
No one knew about us. I use the term “us” loosely. Whatever “us” was, it was an under wraps, hush hush kind of rendezvous. It’s amusing to know you have a secret to keep, isn’t it? It’s even more amusing, more fun, having a secret to keep that resembles an off-the-record entanglement.
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All Summer Long
All summer long he wore the same 3 swim trunks, all shades of blue. He would alternate between the 3, often wearing the same pair multiple days in a row. Sometimes he would wear those awful beige khaki cargo shorts he knew I hated, where I’d mutter sarcastically under my breath: “The only place those belong is in the trash.” He’d throw his hands up in the air in silent protest, in that “I don’t know what you’re talking about” sort of way, with the corners of his eyes creasing as he tried to hold back his bright smile.
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On Wonder—and Moving to Hawaii.
I was starving back then. Not just the kind where I always went to sleep hungry or the fact that my mind looped around and around when it came to thinking about food. Thoughts came in disarray and chaos, a cyclical sling shot of a thought train where my body was screaming at me for one thing: to feed it. I wasn’t just hungry. My body didn’t just scream for food. It wanted to be fed more than something that required chewing. It was starving for more. Starving for a different life. Starving to dance inside the circle of inclusion and belonging, where I had always felt I was the observer, not the performer. Watching life and how it’s supposed to look from the outside, swaying along the periphery but never dancing in the middle. I was starving to belong. Starving as I began to walk down the path of This Is What I’m Supposed To Be Doing to only find a fork in the road. Starving for the courage to make a change. Starving to answer to the call of my inner-most knowing, the voice that has only told me what direction to go. Starving to listen and integrate that voice. Starving for time. Starving for a solution. Starving for freedom. Starving for safety. Starving for love. Starving for connection. Starving for rest. Starving for wonder. Starving for awe. Starving for something that didn’t drain from my empty cup. Starving for meaning. Starving for a better way.
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On Falling in Love
To be frank, I didn’t think I’d ever know how to fall in love again. Enough waves have crashed into the cliffs of my heart to create this sharpened, jagged edged landscape that has weathered one too many storms. Love has been a scary, sharp, dangerous concept.
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Daddy Dearest
There’s a harsh inevitability with life that we often feel like we are impervious to—until it happens. We are going to lose the people we love, but we wear a cloak of protection from loss. We remove ourselves from it, keep it separate. It’s seemingly far removed, and it won’t happen for a very long time. Why worry about it now? It’s a common story. It keeps us disconnected, but deep down we know it’s unavoidable. Most of us will lose our parents in our lifetimes. It’s a stern reminder of our impermanence. We are given one short and sweet life-- and an ending where the book is closed, slowly or all at once. It can be the chapter we fear the most. As the years tick on and I get older, I’ve tried to prepare myself for it—the loss of a parent.
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On Hope (and Landslides).
I do this thing.
I tell the universe to send me things. I say, “Universe, send me butterflies.” Or, “Send me elephants.” Or, “Send me owls.”
I know what you’re thinking. “I didn’t know she was crazy; what made her fall off the deep end?”
Lots of things. Lots and lots of things.
But that’s not the point. This is between me and the universe.
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On Heartbreak.
I open the freezer to get some ice for a glass of water and stop. I’m paralyzed. My eyes are suddenly wide, and my breath quickly becomes shallow. I halt, dead in my tracks, as my gaze fixates on the top shelf. I feel my right hand on the handle of the door start to clench, the grip becoming tighter, and my knuckles turning white. A warm, salty tear forms at the corners of my eyes as my throat constricts, and I don’t close the door as I should. “You should close the door, Amanda,” I think to myself. But I can’t. Just like the contents of the freezer that I stand in front of, I’m frozen.
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On Grief.
I thought I’d survive this year un-scathed. I really thought I’d be one of the lucky ones, the exception to membership of the “2020 Rocked Me Club”. I thought I’d just be lucky enough to observe everyone else’s world crumble from a distance. It would be okay because I could just show empathy for everyone else’s misfortunes. We all just need a little empathy. Someone will share something with me, and I’ll furrow my brow, nod my head and say, “I’m so sorry that happened to you”. And part of me wouldn’t be able to relate because I’m not apart of your experience. We would be separate.
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Pretty Is Not Your Currency
As the floors pass by, and I make my way to street level, I sigh to myself, “Another first date.” The elevator halts to a stop and makes a jarring, irking sound only an elevator that has been around for more than 100 years can.
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