Each day I can distract myself with small things that…

sorry, I was distracted. Eating pasta and polishing off some bath water-warm white wine. Again, numbing.

But what the fuck am I numbing? This is a streak of alcoholism that’s new, interesting, curious, dangerous?

I’m happy. I have satisfaction at work, decent joy in my marriage, which yield an easier, but still blossoming confidence in myself. And yet, oh joy, a whole bottle of wine.

And yet, I’m here eating my way to a clone of my mother. Stretch marks and all. Wasn’t I always this person under my tubby but manageable body? stretch marked and rolling and bloated and uncarefully masked by clothes that I fit less into every day.

My therapist said I do well when I set boundaries for myself.
But after my bath, and lotion and wiping my overdone make-up clean, I can see my youths under here. Trying to shine through, annoyed at my lack of discipline and begging for another shot.

So maybe I’ll give looking like I’m in my 20’s another shot.

Twerk out. New years. It’s not hard if you don’t let it be.


Sent 30 days to the future

from December 20th, 2016 VIA

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