Body Shaming

Body Shaming . . . a term I hear and read about a lot. It definitely has its place in current discussions about self-image, beauty, and how our bodies are perceived. Some believe it's a newer occurrence, but it's not. It's always been around: the idea of how we should look and the shaming that we receive or give to ourselves if we don't live up to a current ideal.

I remember my first moment where I learned to see my body as less than perfect. I was lying on the couch and staring at my legs. I was about eleven or twelve. I was at the age of becoming more aware of myself and my body. My mom walked by and I told her "I have such pretty legs!" She promptly informed me that I did not, they were fat. I was on Slim-Fast within 48 hours. It was the first time I realized that I was something less than beautiful. Now, disclaimer: I do not hate my mom for this or even believe she was attempting to be cruel. She just also had her own body image issues and had a standard of perfection in mind. I didn't live up to it. She was speaking from her own self-image, not mine. I have only just recently realized this. 

But as a young girl on the brink of becoming a teenage girl and all the massive changes that happen during that time, the seed was planted and I never figured out how to un-plant it.  And even if I wanted to, I don't know if I could have. I was indoctrinated on what was beautiful (thin, blonde) and what was not (me) from that moment on. It never occurred to me that those perceptions could be wrong and beauty wasn't one-size-fits-all. 

But no matter where that comment led me, this isn't a rant about how I was victimized and led down a road of hurting my body to become better. This is about how I am now the mother of four teenage daughters and I am even more aware of how destructive it can be when we shame our bodies or are shamed by others. I am guilty of this. I am guilty of offering rebuttals to my daughters compliments. 

"You look so pretty today, Mom" 

"Ugh, no! Fat! I need to lose weight."

The fact is, in those moments, I am being incredibly selfish. I am not considering their own body image issues or how they are still learning to see the world through my words and actions. But how do you stop something that is so ingrained into your thought process? When it's such a focus every . . . single . . . day!?

It's the subtle body sweeps with the eyes that women give to each other. It's the conversations over lunch about new diets, stretch marks, workouts, who has gained weight, who has lost weight.

And the last part: that's the hardest. I was a fat kid. There is no way around it. I was a young girl in a lot of pain and food was my drug. And it was also the belief of feeling invincible to calories and knowing one day, the baby fat would just melt away. 

Until the baby fat was also covered in grown-up fat. And the comments came. 

"You'd be so pretty if you lost some weight."

"Are you sure you want another cookie?"

"Here, I bought you black. It's slimming."

And then you lose weight and the comments still come. Subtle reminders of what is preferred and what is unacceptable.

"You look amazing . . . NOW!"

"I never wanted to tell you, but yeah, you were fat. I'm glad you did something about it."

"Damn, I always knew there was a pretty girl hidden behind that body."

And this isn't also a rant to be okay with being overweight. I know my family history. I know my own history. Excess weight is unhealthy for me. I don't want diabetes, cancer, joint/muscle problems. I want to be healthy and strong. 

But how do you figure out the healthy balance between becoming healthy and living up to ideals? 

I lost weight before. A lot of weight. I told myself I did it to be healthy. I did it to feel strong. I did it because I was approaching 30 and wanted to feel young. 

I lied.

I did it to spite an ex-husband who told me I was embarrassing to be seen with.

I did it to finally, finally! make my Mom proud of me.

I did it to quiet the sales person at the store who let me know that they didn't carry my size. Or if they did have my size, it was just a gesture. The clothing wasn't meant to actually be worn by someone who is a size 16. 

I did it to stop feeling invisible. 

And I achieved those goals. 

My ex-husband told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But it was too late.

My mom couldn't stop bragging about how I looked. But it was too late.

The sales people at those same stores were on a first name basis with me and loved showing me the newest clothes that had come in. But it was too late.

Because no matter what I heard, I still saw myself through their eyes and had no idea how to see myself, with clarity.

But I still kept working to reach more goals. A size 8 had to become a size 6. A friend made a remark about my belly. So a size 6 had to become a 4. I started working for a weight loss company and it was suggested to lose more. So I became a size 2. 

And then I was too thin. I was bony. I lost my curves. I needed to eat. 

I learned harshly that body shaming happens on both sides of the dinner table. Those who are hiding in the bedroom, with a bottle of water trying to ignore the smell of dinner and the gnawing in the tummy, begging for food are no less immune to being made to feel less than than those who are at the table, eating "too much". 

I have four daughters who look up to me, who listen to my words and intently watch how I navigate life. And I know fully well that no matter how much I love them, in this area, I'm failing them. Even if I never say a word, I'm failing them. Because they see me as I tug on my clothes and feel uncomfortable. They see me staring at the mirror trying to really see myself and silently judging what is reflected back to me. They see me on the scale or with a tape measure and hear the loud, frustrated sighs. 

And I don't want to fail them in this area. I want them to have a healthy self-image. Because I have finally realized that people who see themselves in a healthy way take care of themselves. It's not about what size they are or what the scale says. It's about how they feel. It's how they revere their bodies, not damage it. 

And with my recent weight gain, I am once again a pre-teen, sitting at a table, drinking Slim Fast, who no longer sees her body as strong and beautiful, but something to hate. Something to torture. Something to be molded into something worth loving or something to be ignored. 

And all I know right now is that no matter how often I tell my girls that they are beautiful, as they watch me fight to fit into a size whatever-is-considered-perfect-now, I'm also teaching them that one-size-doesn't-fit-all and there is unacceptable and acceptable in regards to appearance. 

And as a mother, that is the worst parenting fail ever. 

Daddy

I wrote you letters one year, after spending days looking up people with your name, getting the addresses and taking a big breath. I thought out my words carefully, wanting it to sound right, wanting the words to draw out some instinct in you to want to meet me. 

Dear Sir (how could I ever call you daddy, a word so foreign on my lips), 

My name is Michelle. From what my mom told, you were the other half of how I came to be. I never met you. I heard you met me once. I was a newborn, so the memory is not one that we share. But knowing that always made me think that maybe, just maybe, you did want to know me. So I am writing to say hello and introduce myself to you.

You'd be proud of me, the woman I have become. I was a wife and I am a mother. I am told I look like you, which bothered me since I always seemed to look so different from my siblings. My mom always told me I had your build: kind of short, thicker thighs. But she also told me stories of how you met, on the dance floor. And I guess that's where I get my love of dancing from. However, I know you both won contests whereas I am more clumsy. But I still have fun. 

Did that come from you as well? 

My siblings were more athletic while I was the bookworm. If someone couldn't find me right away, they knew to find a secluded spot and I'd be curled up with my latest book. My mom was a reader, so I'm sure that came from her. But were you as well?

The fact is, it takes two halves to make a whole. Even if you walked away, scared or spineless, whichever it was, you are part of the reason I am who I am. Can you fault me for wanting to put the pieces together? 

I only wanted to know where the parts of me that don't fit in came from. They had to come from you. I want nothing from you but the rest of the puzzle. 

I'm intelligent and curious. There is truly not enough ever to learn in this world. I'm outgoing but also shy, very shy. I also have a wicked sense of humor and a heart of gold. I don't show the heart part too much. That's where I am more inward and cautious. 

When things got hard or I got hurt, I had moments of anger. I cannot lie. Anger that maybe, just maybe, if I had had a daddy, he (you?) would have protected me. But that never happened and I abandoned fantasies of Knights in Shining Armor at a very young age. I've probably always been too realistic for my own good. My mom was more of a dreamer; I am more of a thinker and a doer. Did that come from you? Or did it come from you not being here. 

Sometimes, when in a crowded place, I find myself seeking out your face in the crowd. But such foolishness there since I don't know your face. I guess a part of me always figured that if I did ever find you, I would just know. 

But yes, I wrote you letters, many letters. Some came back with beautiful replies from men with your name but no connection to me. One came back: Return to Sender. I always thought that was maybe you. Or maybe it was a young woman, embarking on a new life with a new family, wanting to somehow fill in the holes. 

After those letters yielded nothing, I gave up the idea of finding you. I always figured if I wanted to bad enough, it would happen. That's how I see the world: Effort yields Results. I think I stopped out of fear: fear of being let down . . . again. Fear of knowing that you disappeared on purpose and never thought of me and wanted me nowhere in your life. Fears grounded in a reality that is very clear. 

I'll never call you Daddy. I always figured if I met you, I would call you by your first name. Formal. Unfamiliar. We are strangers after all. But a part of who I am is from you. That won't ever change. 

I've recently began wondering about you again. Wondering about your life. But I am no longer a foolish girl hoping for the impossible. I leave it to Fate now, which I've never much believed in. 

But maybe one day, you'll meet me and see what you missed out on. And I'll see where the unfitting pieces of my life finally lie. Because the truth of the matter is this: you can walk away but you always leave something behind, pieces of you.

And those pieces of you reside in me. 

And it's really not fair that I was left alone to figure out where they all go since I never got to see where they came from. 

I'll never call you daddy. I've grown too old to even understand what that means.

But you also must know this: You are one. Rather you want to be or not. 

Stone

I told myself I would go to the cemetery on Monday . . . Tuesday . . . possibly today.  But I just can't . . . not anymore. 

Because I've said my good-byes . . . many times. There are no more. 

So talking to a stone, sitting in front of it, tracing the outline of your name . . .  

It no longer feels necessary.

But feeling connected to you is necessary. 

So incredibly necessary.

And I wish I knew how to do that. 

I heard a character on show say once:

it's not us that haunt you, it is humans who haunt us.

Maybe that's true . . . not wanting to let go. Not knowing how. 

But maybe that's what needs to happen, for everyone. For you. For me. 

For peace. 

Because, some days, there is no peace. I'm too caught up in should've, could've, but no would've. Not anymore.

Can't make amends to the dead.

So I feel drawn to sit in front of stone, tracing the words. 

Your name.

Hoping to feel closer to you.

To hear your voice again.

But again, useless wishes of the living. 

You're no longer there.

Or here.

An unnecessary wish for closure.

All that is needed is forgiveness.

You granted it. I granted it to you.

Maybe now I'll fully grant it to myself.

I feel you sometimes. It amazes me how solid a memory can become. 

A ghost of flesh and blood. But not. 

It's only me filling out the void and giving it shape. 

But it's no longer necessary to kneel in front of a stone and sob for you.

For what is no longer there.

But you are still here . . . .in a new way. 

In my thoughts, memories, parenting, daughters.

So maybe I'll sit in front of stone tomorrow, even if unnecessary.

And I'll allow myself to cry . . . for me.

You no longer need my tears.

But I need them. 

Even after all this time.

The cleansing . . . leading to more forgiveness.

More moving on. 

And I'll trace your name one more time.

And wipe my eyes and stand up.

And realize, finally, I was never saying I was sorry to you.

You no longer needed it.

I was apologizing to myself. 

And learning to be okay . . . 

 . . . without you.

And knowing it's what you wanted all along when you looked at me, one last time and said:

"Be good to yourself, Shelly. You'll be okay"

Yes, Mom, I will be.

And I am. 

Almost. More than I was.

And that is enough for now. 

Ponderings at 85

I knock on her door, more as a greeting than an invitation. I have been letting myself into her small apartment for years now. She meets me at the entryway with a cup of coffee, her own already on the side table. If I know her, it's spiked with a shot of whiskey. She smiles when she tells me "It's what has kept me around for so long." 

I also notice her journal and pen lying next to her coffee. I know this means today I will be silent as she speaks. I love days like this, gleaning a wisdom from her that only her age could afford. 

"I was just looking through old pictures. I was quite the looker in my day. I never saw it, though. I don't think we ever do. That's the saddest part of looking back, knowing how much we missed." 

"You're still the looker", I tell her.

"Oh, don't flatter an old lady. My beauty has faded. I'm okay with that. I had it once, that's enough. I was such a late bloomer, at least that's how I saw it. I spent my youth hiding: behind too much mascara and eyeliner, behind books, big words, fear. Oh, I was so scared when I was young. Scared of falling in love, not being loved, failing. Damn, I wasted so much time, fearing life. I lived on the edges, barely dipping my toes in, feeling the cold and running away." 

She lets out a big sigh and goes quiet. I know I need to stay quiet, let her get lost in her thoughts. 

She takes a drink of her coffee and takes a deep breath.

"It's amazing what we remember when we look back. I remember always being the rebel. I hated the idea of having to fit in, to mold myself. I ran from that. Even as a wife, it was so uncomfortable to try to fit into the mold that seemed laid out for me. I never wanted my wings clipped; I wanted to fly. He hated that, always trying to put me in a cage. So frustrating it had to be for him, trying to keep me grounded while I was fighting so hard to find my own path. One of the hazards of marrying young, I guess. I was so idealistic. Thinking marriage would solve everything, put me where I felt I truly belonged. Instead, it caged me in, dampened my passion. That was the worst part: how dead I felt inside. I never felt alive until I was free: free of expectations and others dreams. I had to go alone and find my own. Boy, did I cause an upset when I discovered myself and made the reveal. But I tell you, I never felt more amazing that day."

I nod at her and sip on my coffee, understanding completely, knowing I was now in that place she had already been. Knowing how scary painful and amazing it felt to shed expectations and stand bare, become a blank canvas. 

"I remember the first time I fell in love. So many assume it was my ex-husband. How sad it wasn't. He was more of a roomate. We were never comfortable with each other. Goodness, I was with him almost twelve years and the man never saw me pee. How can two people be such strangers? But love, oh, what an exciting Spring that was. I still remember that day, in a hotel. I had just come from a hospital, devastated at the news of my Mom's cancer diagnosis. He opened the hotel room and I fell into his arms. I fell in love in that moment. All I remember is the sound of his heart beating against my cheek as I laid on his chest and sobbed and he wrapped his arms around me. But as usual, it ended. I was never quite the same after that. But not in a bad way. I got to experience, once, something good. But love blinds us to the bad and over time, reality crashes in, revealing truths that were hidden before. But I don't regret it, not the beginning nor the end. I never understand why people spend so much time regretting things. You never learn anything that way, except how to be angry."

She pauses and I get up to refill our coffees. I notice a postcard on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker. I understand the conversation now.

I take a chance and ask her a question "The postcard, I'm sorry, it was out. The one you loved, is he the one who died?"

A tear falls down her cheek and she takes a deep breath "It's amazing. I stopped loving him so many, many years ago. It feels like another lifetime. But to know someone is gone you once loved, it still hurts."

I place my hand gently on hers and she squeezes it. She pulls her shoulders back and smiles, "Enough talk of ghosts. There is plenty of time for that after. Thank you for humoring an old woman."

"I enjoy these talks. I learn so much from you. Your life, your views, you've had a wonderful life; you're having a wonderful life."

She laughs, a soft chuckle. "Oh sweety, I have lived. So many disagreed with how I did it. But I don't. I don't regret the lovers, the risks, the words, so intimate, that I put on paper for others to read. I wonder how many of them knew how much of myself I was revealing in those stories. I guess it doesn't matter now. As long as people were reading them, I didn't fuss much over what they meant to them. That's for them to decide: what the story is."

"After we broke up, I never really did a serious relationship again. I wanted to, sometimes, but I was a lot to handle I assume, not following the rules. But how boring that would be. What man in his right mind wants a well-mannered woman? I know the type, a boring one. But I had fun, regardless. Even if I was a handful. Who knows, I still have some life in me, maybe I'll still meet a man with big enough hands"

I laugh, hoping to have even a small part of the mischeviousness she still holds onto. 

"You know, I was still scared, even as I got older, So scared of all of the same things. I don't know if we ever get past that. But I decided one day to do it anyway. To take those risks. And sometimes, it hurt so bad when it all came crashing down around me. But one day, I decided I would rather be scared and do it anyway and feel something than to miss out. And you know, honestly, those things I was so scared of, those things that almost broke me, looking back, they were never as big as I thought they were. It's like waiting for the monster to come out from under the bed and one day, deciding to grab a light, look under there yourself, beg him to reveal himself and realizing, he was nothing more than a mouse. That's a good day."

She stands up, grabs my face and gives me a kiss on the cheek, "I always love when you come by. You make me feel young again."

I smile, knowing we both know it is she who makes me feel young, feel alive. How I hope to have her spirit when I am older. How much I want her spirit now.

"Are you rushing me off?" I laugh.

"Of course I am. I have a date. I told you, I'm still searching for that man with the big enough hands and strong enough shoulders. That's what keeps me young: hope. Once you lose that, you lose everything."

With that, I put our now-empty coffee cups in the sink and say my good-byes. 

As I'm leaving, I catch her looking at herself in the mirror and know, at that moment, she still sees herself as a young woman wanting to take on the world . . . 

 . . . and I have no doubt she will. 

Orchids

The sunlight streaming in makes the dust dance. Dust in the sunlight has fascinated me since I was a child; the way something so dirty can sparkle and become magical in the right light. I glance around my office, seeing the disarray and notice that my orchids are dying. The petals are wilting and the water has turned brown. 

"No amount of sunlight can make that pretty" I sigh and pick up the vase to throw them away. The vase slips from my hands and lands, in pieces, on the floor. 

"Shit!" I bend down to pick up the pieces and feel the sting as glass slices my hand. Blood pools and seeps onto the cuff of my white button-down. In that moment, it's all too much . . . 

The dead orchids . . .  .

The broken glass . . . . 

The blood signaling another trip to the dry cleaner. 

Just one more thing to add to an overflowing to do list. 

"When did my life become so automatic?" I scream to nothing, feeling safe to lose it locked behind closed doors in a now empty office. I take a moment to wonder what my co-workers would think if they saw me lose it? Most likely they'd laugh and ask me if I penciled in a nervous break down on my calendar. 

Just then the phone rings and I attempt to grab it while holding my now blood covered hand. 

"We need to meet for coffee. It's been too long."

How is it, even after all these years, her voice can still calm me, bring me to some place close to level?
"I don't know. I'm so busy . . . . "

I let the words trail off, knowing from the tone of her voice she wasn't accepting no for an answer. 

"Give me 20 minutes. I broke a vase, I have a mess to clean up."

I don't tell her that the mess is me. 

"Twenty minutes. Don't be late."

I run to the bathroom, wash off my hand, thankful the bleeding has stopped, wrap it, and throw the shards of glass in the trash. 

I walk into our favorite coffee shop, the one with the perfectly broken in leather chairs and she waves me over. She's ordered my coffee. I reflect for a moment how nice it is to have that one person who knows when you need someone to know how you like your coffee. 

I plop into the chair, sigh, brush my hair out of my face and close my eyes. 

"Bad day?"

"Aren't they all anymore?" 

She sips her coffee and smiles. Her silence is reassuring. 

It's also nice having someone who knows when to say nothing. 
"My orchids were dead. I was going to throw them away, dropped the vase and cut my hand." 
I realize I sound like a petulant child, but I can't help it. That's how I feel today. Cranky. 

"Is that all?" 

I blow on my coffee, take a sip and sit it down. I pull my legs under me, bending forward and putting my head in my hands. 

"How is the family?" I don't want to talk about me, not today. I just want to listen. 

"Great. That's why I called. We're moving."

I stare at her, no words to say, vaguely hearing references to promotions, across the country, three weeks. 

"But you can't. I mean . . . what?" 

"You know things have been rough around here with his company. The project he is working on is about to end. The offer is too good to pass up. I thought you'd be happy for us?" 

"I am. I just . . . . "

I need you here. 
I let the sentence remain unfinished even though I no longer feel like a petulant child but a toddler about to run head first into a temper tantrum. My inner child is screaming and kicking her little fists, but I reign her in and remain calm. 

"Who will I have coffee with?" 

She laughs at this and I want to be angry at her insensitivity. In fact, I am a little. But I realize how silly it sounds, wanting to hold her back so I don't have to drink coffee alone. 

"Michelle, your co-workers, your neighbor, the people who are here, who have been coming here as long as we have. You're not near the loner you pretend to be."

But they don't get me like you do.
"Yeah, maybe. But my co-workers have lives of their own. Families, one just got married, another is on her way. I'm the one with no one to go home to. The one who stays late at the office. They probably think I sleep there."

"You've always done this, you know. Hide when you get hurt. Hibernate away. Then you get angry when people don't come to you. Have you ever thought maybe you need to go to them. What's the worst that can happen?"

"They say no."

"Is that all?"

I hate when she does that, minimizes something so large. I understand why she does it, but I still don't like it. Today, I just want to stew and she's not making that easy.

"Can't I just be pissy today?" 

"Sure, if that's what you want. But is that how you want one of our last coffee dates to go?" 

"I saw him yesterday, with his new girlfriend. Well, possibly fiance. She was wearing a pretty big ring. He was buying her orchids. Exactly like the ones he used to buy for me. He brushed the hair out of her eyes, just like he did with me. Almost everything was the same . . . except for the ring. I never got a ring. He never even asked me if I preferred gold or silver. But she got a ring. It's funny to me that I still buy myself orchids. Silly to buy a flower for the memories. Maybe I should buy a different kind of flower."

She smiles, "Tiger lilies are pretty."

I can't help it, I start laughing. realizing how ridiculous and spoiled I sound, mourning something, someone, that never actually was anything. 

"I don't miss him; I miss what he did for me. And, I don't know, maybe I'm scared I'll never have that again."

I run my finger over the rim of the coffee cup, enjoying the silence; lost in my own thoughts. I've always appreciated how she lets me do that, disappear into myself, not pushing for words. I look up at her, tears in my eyes. 

"You know you have to download Skype now. You're not getting out of our coffee dates that easy."

It's time to go . . . again. These times never last long enough even though I know two hours have passed. 

She reaches out to grab my hand, a gentle squeeze. 

"You're going to be okay. You are okay. You know that right?"

"Yeah, today is just a bad day. I'll be fine tomorrow."

We stand up and she hugs me. I squeeze a little harder this time, wishing for a way to keep her here, while also knowing I can't. 

"Come by for dinner some night, please. I'll cook."

"You cooking? Oh definitely. Do you even know how to turn on the stove."

"Okay, I'll order in. But please, dinner."

"Definitely."

I look out the window, noticing the dust dancing in the sunlight again. 

Even something so dirty can be beautiful in the right light.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to my neighbor. 

"Meet for coffee on Tuesday?"

I walk out into the sunlight and make a quick detour to the flower shop next door. 
.
Ten minutes later, I walk out with a large bouquet of tiger lilies . . . 

 . .  and one orchid. 

75th Street Exit

I'm driving and trying to pay attention to the road while also focusing on my GPS so I don't miss my exit. I glance at the signs to see how close I am.

75th Street Exit. 

Take a left, then a right past the McDonald's, 2 blocks down, another right, 3 blocks and a right. Second floor, door on the right. 

Crazy how many right turns there are for something that was anything but. 

But tonight, that wasn't my exit. Not anymore. So I drive a few more miles to new friends, new hangouts, new conversations. But he lingers there, in the back of my mind. 

Through the door, his room is in the back. A Boy's Life, 311, hours of conversation, the first time we made love. Outside on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, his arms wrapped around me. 

I never felt so safe. 

"Can we freeze this moment, Michelle? This perfect moment?"

I guess I did. 

I wish we had at least fought when it was over. The ending was too quiet, too calm. It was the complete opposite of our beginning. But I guess that's how it's supposed to be: opposite. A clear line now drawn between what was and what is no more. 

I fell sleep in his arms and woke up hours later to him staring at me. 

"You're so beautiful. You know that right?"

He brushes my hair away from my face and kisses my eyes . . . . 

"Not just here"

He runs his hands over my cheeks. 

"Or here"

He lays his hand on my chest, the pulse in his fingertips matching the beating of my heart.

"But here. Inside. You are so beautiful. Inside. And you love me. Someone as beautiful as you loves me"

I hold onto those memories now to remember that I was loved. Maybe that's not true, maybe he didn't. But in my memories, even for brief moments, I was loved exactly the way I needed to be. 

The 75th Street Exit. Just another point on a destination. But for me, a heart full of memories of a time when I let myself free fall into one of the most beautiful times of my life. 

In Plain Sight

Sometimes I feel I need to put a disclaimer on my posts: WARNING! Active therapy session ahead. Proceed with caution! You will either be enlightened or find yourself needing a therapist of your own! 

I continue to write regardless. I honestly don't even know who reads this. For me, I feel as if every time I write, share a bit more of myself, I descend further down the high rise that is me. I'm still trying to figure out if that's a good thing: the knowing.

The Penthouse had quite a view, pretty, polished, not a single stain on those while walls. So perfectly fake, no one would ever guess how many times those walls have been repainted to keep the spots from seeping through . . . .

Floor 34 was a bit more disheveled. The types of messes typical to a place that is lived in casually. Books carelessly strewn about; the bed not always made; dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed. The bills tossed on the counter to be looked at another day. It was more of a storage room, though, than a home. The place where things were put to be handled later. If later every came . . . .

The 30th floor was a masterpiece. Running shoes by the door; gym clothes in a bag at the end of the hall; nearly completed homework on the counter. Music plays in the background: an upbeat tune that causes a person to move without realizing it. Books lie opened on the couch next to a basket of yarn and needles and an almost finish project. A glass of wine on the vanity, next to the crimson lipstick and darkest black eyeliner. A dress and heels in the closet waiting for the night. It's warm here, almost inviting. Almost, but not quite . . . .

Floors 19 to 29 are loud and messy. Toys litter the floors, bottles line the counter and a baby cries while toddlers beg for attention. Cartoons play in the background, but no one is really watching. Yesterday's laundry is waiting to be folded; it sits next to the laundry that is waiting to be done. Dinner cooks on the stove. A pen lays across freshly signed divorce papers . . . .

It's a peek inside of a life. Bits and pieces, sewn together into a haphazard story. Hiding . . . in plain sight. My motto has always been "Tell them enough to keep them interested; never tell them enough to let them in" Those missing pieces lie hidden in the basement, a lock keeping it all in place. Barely. The storage bin is overflowing and seeping out onto other spaces; onto Other's spaces. Spring cleaning seems a likelihood. It will most likely take until Fall. Possibly winter . . .

I hide in plain sight. Hoping to be seen, but never wanting to be noticed. I put on a show; my own One Act play. Starring me. Which character will I be today? The Achiever; The Party Girl; The Seductress; The Humanitarian; The Friend. Small bits revealed slowly. My mom always said I was the most genuine, real person she had ever known. Her words molded me into her greatest masterpiece and my own worst enemy . . .

I'd love to put this to rest with a happy ending. But that'd be another lie and I think I've told enough  lies to last a lifetime . . . .

And honestly, the scariest part now is delving into the points in time that hurt so much and dissect the words that I've been told . . . .

 . . . and learning to believe in myself even if no one else does.