Growing up, I always refused painkillers.  I don’t know why – maybe I thought they were a sign of weakness.  I don’t know.  I just know that I routinely turned them down, even when I was in a lot of pain. 

But somehow, when I was fifteen, I came home from one more shitty day of high school – part of being a teenager, right? – and declared to my mother, “I have a headache.” 

“Tylenol’s in the cabinet,” she responded absentmindedly.  I hesitated, but went and grabbed the bottle, read the directions and popped two for my nonexistent headache. 

The next day, I arrived home and noticed that the bottle was still in my room.  “What the hell,” I thought, and took two more.  It wasn’t a big deal.  Really. 

Over the course of the next few weeks, this became part of my routine.  I worked my way up from two pills to four, six, eight, sixteen – always in increments of two, because I’m anal retentive like that.  My parents had purchased a bottle of 500 at the local wholesale club and never noticed a thing. 

Then one day, I downed 36 in one shot and took a nap. 

I didn’t wake up for two days. 

After that, I stopped taking Tylenol.  I don’t believe I even looked at another one for five years, and only because I thought my uterus was going to fall out from how bad it hurt. 

I can’t even explain to you why I did it.  It’s not like I felt good from it.  I never thought “time to get high!”  I just did it and it seemed normal to me. 

I didn’t even recognize I’d had a problem until over ten years later…

What are Serial Thursdays?

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You walk down a pretty, tree-lined street, and see a glass house.  The sun shines off the sparkling glass house; it is beautiful, and you stop to admire the house for a few minutes, trying to focus on it, but the sun is too bright and pokes you right in your eyes.

After a few minutes of this, you notice a girl sitting on a rock outside the glass house, looking thoughtfully at it. 

She sees you looking at her and becomes animated suddenly, smiles brightly, gets up, and walks over to you, and says “Hello!”

That girl is me. 

I walk over to you, knowing what you are thinking, knowing what you are seeing.  You see a beautiful house, so beautiful it blinds you, so beautiful that you wish you were the owner, able to go in and wander freely. 

I say hello and distract myself with conversation with you.  I twinkle, I captivate, I engage you in a long conversation, and you are impressed by my wit, my intelligence, my joie de vivre.  I, too, am beautiful, and you wonder briefly at how such a beautiful young woman came to live in such a beautiful house.

Eventually, it is time for you to go, though you have not seen the inside of the house.  I have not invited you in, and though you don’t know this, it wouldn’t matter how long you stayed to chat.  It would be a cold day in hell before I would invite you or anyone inside my glass house. 

My house is for myself and myself alone.

I bid you goodbye, and you continue on your way, happy having seen such a lovely house, happy having spoken to such a lovely girl.  In later years, you occasionally think of me, and occasionally wonder how the house is doing, if I still live there, and what was inside the house.  You imagine the amazing furniture that surely furnishes the house, and who else might live in the house with me, and how lovely my life must be to live in such a wonderful house.

You will never know the truth. 

It’s all too easy to be blinded by the superficial beauty sometimes.  It’s all to easy to forget that what appears shiny and beautiful on the outside sometimes is actually completely rotten on the inside. 

I sit outside my lovely glass house day in, day out, knowing that the casual passersby will never see what’s inside; they will let the sun reflect off the glass walls and suggest an ethereal beauty, believing this illusion, wanting it for themselves.  I will talk to everyone who passes by, adding to this myth of perfection; the girl with the bright smile, chatting happily, letting them buy into the perception that my life is blessed, my life is wonderful and my house is outrageously beautiful. 

And when night falls, and everyone’s gone on their way, and I am left to myself, when I have no other choice, I enter this glass house, and try not to look at what’s inside when it’s all I can see around me. 

Death.  Destruction.  Decay. 

Everything neglected, nothing loved.  Pain, torture, heartache.  Every negative emotion in the human spectrum, and some that aren’t.  Suffering, loss, the very foundation of the glass house being the tears that fell from my eyes for days on end after the first time the first one put his hands on me. 

Everyone I ever trusted has betrayed me.  Everyone I ever tried to share my dreams with, the thoughts of building a future with a lovely house, all that I have ever loved… always left me. 

So instead, I built a glass house around those destroyed dreams.  I used my tears as the foundation, my heartache as the walls, my pain as the furniture, and my very soul as the roof.  It looks beautiful on the outside, but the inside is rotten down to the last nail.  I continue building and adding to the glass house; with each slap, with each hurled insult, with each new betrayal, my glass house gets bigger, more beautiful.

But none of this will last. 

Once someone loves me, I believe, once someone finally loves me enough to see into the house and still love me, not run away in fright, once someone finally loves me enough to hold me in his arms and never let go, the glass house?  I won’t need it anymore.  I will tear it down, brick by brick, wall by wall, room by room, until nothing remains but a puddle of tears at the bottom of a well.  Even those will dry up eventually, and I will move on from the glass house, and move into a brick house.  Perhaps other people won’t be blinded by its beauty, and perhaps other people won’t envy me so much, but I won’t need that anymore.  I will live in a solid house built from love, and I won’t be afraid to invite people into my house, to show them what real beauty is.  I will not need to distract them with my wit, my intelligence, instead I will be able to be my own trueself, and they will still want to be my friend, and I will be happy.

Once someone loves me.

Once someone finally loves me enough in spite of my glass house.

Maybe even love me because of my glass house.

© Feisty Foodie for The Feisty Foodie, 2009. | Permalink | 4 comments | Add to del.icio.us
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He lay sprawled on the bed, a few feet of bedspread between them.  He was engrossed in the movie, seemingly unaware of her.

“Why do I feel so weird?  We’re just hanging out as friends.  Just because we never hung out alone before doesn’t mean anything.  Just because we’re alone in his apartment doesn’t mean anything…”

The movie ended, and he popped in another tape.  He sat back down.  Was he closer to her or was she imagining things?

He was still absorbed in the movie.  She was blankly staring.  He slid an arm around her; at first she jumped, then relaxed into his embrace.

He turned and began kissing her.  His hand pressed on one shoulder, his other was on her waist.  She kissed back timidly; never before uncertain but now completely lost.  Never was in a situation like this with someone she considered her friend.

She pushed him away and said “No, I’m sorry, I-” he cut her off “It’s okay, whatever, you don’t wanna kiss me, that’s fine.”  She thought he was angry; she stayed quiet. 

She liked him, and she did not want to.  She knew she could not get hurt by him- she believed she could not get hurt by him.  He thought he would hurt her; she laughed at this idea.

She still liked him.  Liked him too much for this to be true, and did not care.  She was careless.

The movie went on, and she was once again consumed by her thoughts.  “What did that mean?  Why did he kiss me?  Does he like me, or is he just being a horny guy and think he can get something from me tonight?  We’re just friends, how could he invite me to his place and think I’d fool around with him?  He knows I’m not going to sleep with him, I told him I’m a virgin, he knows that.  So what’s going on?  Why do I feel so confused?  This isn’t how I normally am… I don’t like this.  What is he doing to me?”

He still had his arms around her.  Without warning, he turned again and grabbed her chin firmly, gently, and tilted her head up for her.  Kissed her roughly, needing her, wanting her mouth on his.  A kiss that lasted a very long time; that one move sexy beyond anything in her life, almost forcing her to kiss him with his hand turning her face to him for her; sexy was her undoing. 

A kiss that never ended as she fell into the pool of her own feelings. 

She liked him a lot.

originally written & posted … 2003

What are Serial Thursdays?

© Feisty Foodie for The Feisty Foodie, 2009. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Serial Thursdays

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling again.  Those stars, so neatly glued down; right above her place on the bed, in tiny star shapes, she had formed the word “Daddy”. 

Daddy.

It had been ten years since he died, and although the sharp pain had subsided into a dull ache in the past five, she was certain it would never completely fade.

She felt her husband stir slightly next to her.  She half hoped he would awaken so he could hold her while she cried, but the other half of her wished desperately to not have the desire to cry.  To not need anyone to comfort her.  To not need comforting most of all.

She turned on her side, buried her face in her pillow and let loose the tears.  “Daddy,” she gasped and heaved, feeling slightly better for having cried.  She felt a hand rubbing her back and realized her husband had awakened, but felt no better for having disturbed his sleep.  She turned around and continued crying into his shoulder, as she had ten years prior.  He soothed with his hand rubbing her back, the other hand smoothing her hair down.  No words were said; simple silence was all she demanded and all he gave.

As they fell back asleep entwined in each others’ arms, her thoughts continued to wander. 

Back ten years exactly, to the day he had died, to what she had been doing when her cel phone rang with bad news.  The memory made her cringe, as it always did.  She had been out with her friends, drinking heavily and partying hard. 

It had been her birthday. 

originally written & posted … 2003

What are Serial Thursdays?

© Feisty Foodie for The Feisty Foodie, 2009. | Permalink | One comment | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Serial Thursdays

On the narrow ledge of the roof she stood.  She inched closer to the edge. 

He watched her silently, taking another drag from his cigarette.  The wind up here whipped at his hair as he pulled his leather jacket tighter around him.  Calling out to her would have been futile; even his thoughts were almost lost to the wind. 

She lifted her face to the skies and closed her eyes.  She could hear God so much more clearly up here.  With arms thrown wide, she embraced Him and asked, “Why do I make myself unimportant?  Why do I allow other people to overlook me, as if that’s what I deserve?  Is that all I deserve?”

These questions tore at his heart.  Had he not loved her enough?  Had he not treated her as though she was number one?  Was it his fault she felt unimportant?  He had his own questions, but they would have to wait. 

A light shot across the sky as she nodded, seemingly listening to His answers.  “Why do I always blame myself?  Because it is my fault,” she insisted, arguing with God.  He chuckled to himself; that was his baby.  She would argue until she was blue in the face if she thought she was right- even with God! 

“I’m worth so much more?  Really?” she opened her eyes.  “But- but..” there was no arguing with God, she realized.  But there was also no arguing with how she was treated, how she felt, how everyone made her feel.

She knew he was there, only a few feet away, watching as always.  That was love.  But sometimes, love just isn’t enough. 

Not even God’s love. 

She closed her eyes again, and stepped off the ledge.

Image courtesy of SpaceKittie; please do not duplicate/save.

originally written & posted … 2003

What are Serial Thursdays?

© Feisty Foodie for The Feisty Foodie, 2009. | Permalink | One comment | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Serial Thursdays