The Purge

            This is (very)short story that I wrote not too long ago. I will let it speak for itself, and I hope that it makes you think.

           I squinted my eyes, looking again into the full length mirror hanging on my bedroom door. No- no, this couldn’t be right. I turned to the left, examining my body from the side now. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I huffed as I walked quickly into the bathroom across the hall. 

I very quietly pulled the scale out from under the sink. If my parents caught me weighing myself again, they’d kill me; or worse: send me back to therapy. I stepped on the scale, instantly looking down, eager to see the number displayed there. Exactly 107.

I swore under my breath; I had gained a pound and a half. 

Stepping off the scale, I stared at my reflection once more. Even in a baggy black t-shirt, I could see my stomach bulge out into a pouch, ballooning over the button of my jeans. I stripped them, and, twirling around so I could see my back, I pulled off my shirt, and then my bra. I could see the pound sitting angrily in my love handles. I raised my arms above my head, turning front ways again, so I could check my ribs. 

I closed my eyes, trying -as my “treatment” had taught me to- to think rationally of what a five-foot-six-inch girl weighing 107 pounds would look like. I took one, slow, deep breath, and opened my eyes. 

The girl I faced in the mirror was nothing like the one in my head; she was huge; monstrous. Puddles of cellulite covered her thighs and butt, while rolls of fat lay in mounds on her stomach. 

This is not how I wanted to see myself- not ever again. For a minute, I really did try to talk myself out of it; to convince myself it wouldn’t change anything. But I knew better.  

A voice from outside the door interrupted my thoughts. 

“You okay in there, hun,” my mother asked soothingly. 

“Yeah,” I said, reaching to turn on the water. “Just taking a quick shower.”

“Okay, dinner when you get out,” she called, walking away. 

“Right,” I whispered to my self, taking one last look in the now steamy mirror.

I knelt by the toilet, and stretched one long finger into the back of my throat until I my stomach turned. 

With a sigh of relief, I stepped under the hot water, and looked down at myself. After purging, I could see myself more clearly. I ran my fingers over my popping hip bones, smiling. 

Much better, I thought. 

Speak

              I have a voice. I have a voice bursting with words and ideas that I have spent my life sculpting. I have something inside of me that has to get out, that has to show the world something new. Every day my voice has new things to say, and every day I tell it to be quiet. Every day I push it further down, pretending I can't hear it nagging at me. Every day I force myself to pull even further away from the potential I know I possess.  

              I have a voice that could change the world. That could change you. I could make you think about things you've never thought of; give you a new view on things you might rather just not think about at all. I could make you uncomfortable, awkward, outraged, inspired. 

              My voice has power, a kind of power that scares me. But I can't be quiet anymore. I can't silence a voice that can make a difference. I owe it to myself, to everyone, to scream as loud as I can. I'm afraid to start talking, but, really, who ever changed anything without getting a little loud?

Let Go

Writing is hard. I don't mean the actual finding words to put down on paper, although that isn't always so easy, either. I'm talking about the soul kind of writing. I'm talking about trusting every single person on this entire planet- because you never know where your words will end up- to hold a piece of your heart. I don't think there's anything harder than writing what you actually feel. You have to forget who you are; let go of everything you know, because someone, somewhere is going to be offended. Writing is an art, and art is meant to offend; to stretch, and move, and inspire. But, how do you separate yourself from the fear of people ridiculing you for a belief, a thought, a word? How can you not care about making someone uncomfortable? How can you embrace your art without completely abandoning your inhibitions? Writing is hard. Real writing is hard, but it has to be done. Where would we be without it?

A summer's day

There isn't much that compares to the day you can first feel summer's breath. Legs, pale from hiding all winter, begin to peek at you from under skirts and shorts. Smiles are contagious, eager to spread their own bit of sunlight throughout the world. Laughter rings out from everywhere, even the birds joining, again, in the song. Rather than being met by cold eyes and a stiff wave, joyful squeals and warm embraces are there to greet you. Love is in the air- in the oxygen inhaled during every breath. There is no escaping the twitterpation- no, it will catch up to each and every one of you.  Summer is nipping at the heels of winter, and it can't come fast enough. 

I've got a secret...

Sometimes it's best to keep a secret. Hidden behind blushing cheeks and foolish smiles, it stays warm and safe inside your heart. Your eyes glaze over with excitement, and nothing can tear it out of you. It keeps you alive. It's the kind of secret that lights a fire in you; you might not even know it's there until you feel it burning deep- and then it hits you. It glows through your skin; it shines in your eyes. People say to you, "You look different... What's going on?". But you will just smile coyly and shrug your shoulders; no one needs to know but you. This secret could be the adventure of your life, so keep the flame going for as long as you can... 

The Morning After...

              It seems to me that nights are never the right length. Either endlessly long, or breathlessly short, there is no middle ground. Long nights are the worst; the nights made up of wide eyes, restless dreams,  and troubled thoughts. Those are the nights the sun can't come soon enough. Those are the nights you pray away the moon, but he stays, grinning devilishly at you. There's nothing you can do, but dream about those other nights. 

              You've had them before: nights that hang gracefully on your heart, that speed by so quickly, you'd swear they were only a dream. The night you first meet a lover, or steal a glance from across the room. The nights you twirl, dancing happily into the sky. The nights you dream of other worlds, and forget how closely reality is lurking. Never long enough, these nights fade with the stars all too soon. 

              I'm not sure there is such a thing as a perfect night, too long, or too short, you're always wishing for something...

Well, There's a First

I've learned something new about myself: I am a born "risk taker". Today, alone, I can think of at least five risky things I've done: 1) waking up before noon, 2) walking all the way across campus with a full mug of scalding hot coffee, 3) attending an 8:30 am class, 4) eating SODEXO, and 5) starting a blog. What can I say? I'm an adrenaline junky. Sure, I'm not jumping out of helicopters, or standing in front of a moving train, but, come on, people, how many of you have seen me rise with the sun? Maybe it's my roommates taking the risk...