I came around the corner fast, a woman with a purpose, looking up long enough to see him approaching me. I backtracked and hid beside the closed antique shop, my heart in my stomach, jerking wildly about in the same fashion of that one time I got the Thai food funk from the sizzling sautéed tofu and green bean platter at my favorite restaurant. His swaggered approach caused this effect every time.

The deepest longing inside me to rush to him and get a long deep hug of a benefit less friendship was at odds with the reason I was traveling with such a frantic purpose. I had just procured a bottle of Percocet and I didn’t want to share them with anyone, even James.

My heart won the battle with my opiate addicted mind. I rushed forward; it had been too long. His eyes lit up when they met mine, blue eyes sparkling, every inch of him the hot Italian bad boy.

His trench coat flapped against mine in the wind as we embraced. Trench coats are the hottest attire; we could have fucked right there as people walked past us in either direction. To the casual observer it might have appeared as if we couldn’t stop hugging.

Decades had passed since I had first met him, the best friend of my then boyfriend; I had secretly been harboring a deep rooted longing to make out with him for hours, allowing him to drink from my mouth until he’d filled himself to overflowing. Instead we had fallen into a brother sister friendship of a depth that defied the stretches of absence that occasionally punctuated our lives.

Clutching hands now, I slipped him a smoke as we walked and he ignored my lighter, instead tapping his tip against my lit cherry. In the window of the antique shop I saw a pair of women’s shoes circa 1800 sometime, tiny and white, delicate. Next to them were a comb, mirror, and brush set, their backs ornately carved. Everything was carefully arranged next to a pitcher and wash basin with little pink flowers on the sides.

He stood silently beside me, allowing me to gaze at the pretty things as long as I wanted to. “Do you want those?” he whispered next to my ear,” we will come back tomorrow and I’ll buy them for you.” I smiled, remembering the night we’d gone out to dinner together. Through the late night rain we had hurried to slip into a restaurant before they closed. After we’d eaten he asked me if I wanted anything else. Our server wanted to go home, wiping down already clean tables near us, shooting us occasional dirty looks.

Empowered by his easy manner I ordered a cup of coffee. The server set it down, lukewarm in a Styrofoam cup, a to-go hint. I reached for the cup, rising up from my chair, as he raised his arm slowly and called out for a proper cup of hot coffee, served in a mug, the way coffee should be served. So brazen. We sat there silently as I sipped from the white mug, smiling my stupid silly grin, hands warm around hot porcelain, candlelight glowing at only our table.

Looking into the antique store window I smiled that same stupid grin; I know I did. He was homeless again; I had smelled it deep in his skin as we’d embraced, allowed myself to inhale his body odor: the stale tobacco and sweat, cheap beer, whiskey, dirt, and that touch of sperm he’d always worn like cologne. He had a freshly fucked smell, always.

My mind went from all those pretty things in the window back to the Percocet in my pocket. I had planned on chewing four of them right away and then swallowing two whole later. I flashed them at James. “I have a place around the corner,” he pulled my surprised arm.

As we walked he told his tale of bungee jumping into rock bottom, no quest for pity, just stating facts. I examined his profile and noticed the toll the years had taken. His skin was pockmarked, but I never remember acne. A love for food didn’t show in his gaunt face, hollows around his eyes suggesting a plethora of hungers. “God, he looks rough”, I thought. Our spent youth seemed to be there too: Levi 501s, fringed leather jackets, canned beer, Dark Side of the Moon, sex before AIDS, Atari, cruising too fast down slick roads after smoking pot, Aqua Net, wondering what the hell we were going to do with our lives after high school, Sunday mornings in church with our families and private hangovers, wine cooler bottles scattered across lawns behind houses we didn’t hold keys to, The Wall, knowing our fathers were disappointed and our mothers heartbroken, but most of all the laughter, somehow.

As we arrived at an apartment complex with a door opening right up onto the sidewalk it occurred to me that he might have been thinking similar things about my appearance. His hand turned the knob knowing it to be unlocked. I stepped into the narrow studio apartment. The one and only room contained three twin beds around the walls with a couch, coffee table and TV in the middle.

James headed to the toilet; “You have to shit sitting sideways”, he called over his shoulder. The little beds made me think of the seven dwarfs, except the three in this abode were Junkie, Al Coholy, and Porny, judging by the garbage scattered across the floor. I found what I knew to be James’ unmade bed and sat without trepidation. A battered wood box turned on its side served as a nightstand.  A well worn copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost sat waiting for eager thumbs.

When he returned we got straight to the business of getting high. He had a kit and liked the needle. I like the needle just fine if someone else does the work; plus I tend to lose things, so carrying a kit is just another umbrella forgotten on the bus.  When we were finished we moved to the couch and he popped porn in the VCR. I have no idea how long we sat there slumped side by side on the couch; I was in the middle of the meltdown that still makes my mouth water to recollect. I turned to him and pointed at the TV, “Hey, I know how this one ends. He pulls out and comes on her back.” We laughed. I felt so warm.

Hint taken, he hit stop and we got up and stretched. I walked back over to Paradise Lost and picked it up. He was eager now to explain to me the experience of only owning one book and reading it over and over again. I really wish I could tell you now all that he said but what remains is the way that I felt watching his eyes animate.

I reached for him and told him how horribly long I had wanted to kiss him.

I have his obituary saved on my computer. At first I read it several times a day but now that the seasons have passed I only look at it from time to time, as well as the accompanying newspaper stories regarding his death. The words tell me a lot of things I wouldn’t have known and inside of me I hold the things that remain just for me: sneaking out of my bed to watch him passed out on my couch, the way he never teased me for sucking at basketball, playing cards for hours, cooking dinners only he showed up at my door to share with me, watching him hold my babies when they were tiny, (but then reprimanding me for never putting them down), the times he comforted me over heartbreaks with cases of beer and strolls to Starbucks to pick up coffee to sip while we browsed in Powell’s, and that one night he told me that I was never going to be a woman who would get over a past lover, but that life goes on anyway.

50 Greatest Sex Scenes
50 Worst Sex Scenes

I haven’t seen most of these movies, but I plan to use these lists to update Alex’s and my queue from now on. Lately we have been passing off the responsibility of moving a film to the top slot the way we used to try to pass off the next diaper change, especially the ones that announced themselves with unmistakable sounds and/or odors. That was a battle I never did win anyway, because someone had to demonstrate the strength of his gag reflex. Shit loaded diapers, vomiting husbands, what was I writing about?  Sex in movies! Anyway, the only disagreement I had with these lists was Monster’s Ball being on the worst list. I thought that sex scene was hot. I even remember thinking they had to be actually doing it because it looked pretty realistic.

This Operation Feel The Fuck Better has been time consuming lately, because I have been making doctor’s appointments and actually keeping them instead of canceling them in favor of sleep. Things with my psychiatrist are great. He doesn’t talk much; I don’t talk much. I quickly run through how I have been feeling and if there have been any unusual stresses (His words, not mine. I’ve never thought of stress as unusual in my life) and then we chat about should we toy with the drugs I am on or not and I am out of there. At my last visit he asked me if my job was in danger, what with the state of the economy and all, and I explained that there is a pub at the restaurant I bake for and while food sales are down, booze sales are up. My future lies in the hands of the drunken patrons needing a sandwich or a burger to wash up some of that grog.  The other thing I’ve noticed is a lot more people are eating desserts, especially on the weekends. I like to think of this as the “I lost over $100,000 in my 401K, I might as well have a $7 piece of cake” effect. My psychiatrist also noticed that I was sitting crooked in the chair, trying to put more of my weight on the side of my lower back that hurts the least, and he suggested I start doing yoga. Things had been going so well until then. Sometimes I wish that I could be one of the bendy stretchy women who pass by my work in the mornings on their way to the yoga studio as I sit huddled in the cold rain with a pint of ale in one hand and a smoke in the other, but I know that unless I could roll up the yoga mat and smoke the damn thing I probably couldn’t hold the first position, or the second one. It’s a shame though, because without fail, the women who walk by me with their ponytails swinging and their mats tucked under their arm look amazing.

I also had an appointment with my primary care physician and she was wonderful, as always. I apologized for not having shaved my legs and she laughed at that and later she apologized before she looked up something on google. Alex was horrified when I told him that my doctor sometimes looked in a book or went online to check on something, but I think it’s great. First of all I would rather have a doctor double check something before fucking up my health and secondly, doctors probably do it all the time, they just usually leave for a minute or two and then come back. I just made that up, but it makes sense to me. My doctor praised me for slowly taking off weight over the last few years and for keeping it off, which is nice to hear, but not the way I wanted to do it. I know she’s right and all but I want to feel OK in this skin NOW. She then referred me to a specialist for my fucked up back, suggested more physical therapy and YOGA! I told her I didn’t want to stand with a group of people and be the only one who couldn’t  bend myself into this position and then that one, and she suggested a small group, with an instructor who would be willing to modify the poses for me. I don’t want to stand out in a crowd. I like to hide at home. This OFFB (thank you Belle!) is tough.

I went to the specialist the next day, and she looked over the scans of my back and asked me if I’d been in a car wreck. That made me strangely happy because it is a better response than “I see nothing wrong here, it must be in your head.” She showed me some stretches to do before work and throughout the night. She carefully guided me through them until I was doing them correctly and I felt safe and happy in her office, her hands warm against my skin. She casually mentioned that taking off a few pounds would ease some of the pain and I was relieved to be able to say that I had been doing just that, slowly. She advised me to start working in sneakers instead of the clogs I usually bake in, something about having more cushion around my feet. I had all the paperwork to take with me to the physical therapist and she was shaking my hand, saying how nice it was to meet me, when she too suggested yoga. This time I was ready and I told her that I was going to look into it.

I am glad that I didn’t also schedule a dentist appointment this week because all of the time traveling on the bus and sitting in waiting rooms was a bit much.

Other than doctors I spent my days off cooking, baking and cleaning at home. I have really gotten lazy about things, letting chores slip because I am just so tired after work. I have been going over our budget with Alex and we both agreed that we need to cut down on our grocery bill, among other things. A large part of that is the fact that I have been buying more convenience items since I returned to work so that it’s easier for the four of us to eat without me spending hours in the kitchen. Nathan and Polly are both pretty lazy when it comes to fixing themselves something to eat on the nights I don’t cook and I feel guilty every time I hear the beeping of the microwave.

Now it is one hour before I need to catch the bus to work. I am tired, but there are scratch cooked meals in both the fridge and the freezer; I baked fresh bread for us and the house looks great, for now. This must be what people mean by a good tired. I feel productive, on top of things, headed in the right direction. I have a solid idea of the steps I am taking and the ones that shall come. I begin physical therapy next week and my dentist’s phone number is on a post it next to the moniter, waiting for me to call in the morning. I even dug through a box of things I had stashed in a closet and pulled out a few yoga tapes I have on VHS. If I ever get some time in this house when no one is watching me except for maybe the dog and the cats I might give it a try. Just maybe, because you never know.

Enough of my boring life, what’s new with you? Have you been reading but you haven’t introduced yourself? It would be cool if you did. I love comments. Does anyone have any recommendations for journals for me to read? I hope you are all well. Years ago, when I first started reading journals I never really got it when people wrote about how much they loved their readers. Now I do, and it feels great.

Starting at the top of my head, he softly ran his fingers across my skin, following his fingers with a trail of kisses and whispered words of my beauty. I closed my eyes and he kissed my eyelids, tickled the sides of my face with butterfly kisses as we both laughed at how ticklish I was. “What happened here?” His fingers traced the scars on my forehead, barely noticeable by then, signs of a little girl who didn’t listen when told not to scratch her chicken pox. He found the mole on my neck with fingers and tongue, traced the lines of my collarbone, and shushed me when I tried to stop him from pulling my nightgown all the way up and over my head. We had made love before, but I had always kept an article of clothing on, trying to hide my scars, the stretch marks on my breasts that had appeared seemingly overnight when my breasts had sprouted out so quickly as a young girl, my rounded belly, my full thighs, the birthmark that no one had seen except for family members, back in the days when I was still young enough to run freely in a swimsuit, to slip in and out of swimming pools without a thought of my body and its flaws.

“Even your fingernails are pretty”, he whispered, and he took the time to slowly rub his thumb over them as he held each finger in turn. I smiled in the darkness, happy that I had taken the time to paint them before he had arrived.

His hands didn’t linger on my breasts; instead they found my stomach and I tried pulling the covers over my midsection to hide. He pushed the blankets away and I replaced them with both hands. “I am….fat.” I said, and I could feel the tears spring to my eyes. “No”, he replied, gently removing my hands and replacing them with his, “you are soft and beautiful.” He stroked my stomach in slow circles, slipped a finger into my belly button, and ran his hands down to my thighs. He looked at my knees and then back up at my face, his eyes asking. “Roller skating down a hill in shorts, third grade.” It was getting easier somehow. My breathing had slowed and I was starting to relax. He almost had me believing what he had said earlier about wanting to really know me.

The part of me who couldn’t believe I was spread out naked on a bed while I let my first love touch every square inch of me was shushed by the other part of me who was intrigued by his desire to bend me this way and that way, to find out the story behind scars I had forgotten about, to listen and to reassure over and over when I would become overwhelmed with insecurity.

He kept all of his clothes on. I can still see his hair falling into his eyes, his red flannel shirt open at the neck far enough to flash a fraction of his chest, his tight jeans straining to hold his erection, one he stopped me from touching every time I reached for it , his hands gently grasping mine and leading them away.

It was now time for my calves, summer’s reminder resting there in the marks left by mosquito bites I was told not to scratch but  could never resist. I recalled how it felt so good to finally dig my nails in and scratch until the blood ran. My mom tried spanking me, tried forcing me to sleep with socks taped onto my hands but even then I would rub at my legs, longing for relief from the itchiness, not caring at the mess that I made of my legs and the scars that were left there. I found myself feeling stupid in the retelling, and “No, I can’t remember where the scar on the sole of my foot came from.” I would hear the story from my sister years later, a “Don’t you remember that time you stepped on…” but by then he would be long gone.

He slowly turned me over and started on the other side.

***

I saw him at a party many years later. We both had children, were in relationships that appeared to be promising. He was drinking beer, avoiding eye contact, looking a little green in the face. He approached me later and offered me a beer but I was not drinking at that time; I was still breastfeeding. I shook my head and said, “No thank you. I don’t drink.” His eyes met mine and the corners of his lips turned up as he said, “I don’t believe you.”

I felt a flash of anger as I quickly walked away.

Later, I was sitting in a lawn chair watching our children play together in the grass and he plopped down easily into the chair beside me. I envied him the bottle in his hand. He was no longer green in the face but flushed with the slight red of alcohol. “Hey!” he said suddenly, “Have you seen my hand?” I turned toward him, prepared with a witty comment about not having seen him or his hand in years, but his eyes were earnest, almost pleading, and his hand was outstretched. I was uncertain what I was supposed to do with his hand so I lightly traced the scar with my finger and broke the uncomfortable silence by asking the first thing that popped into my head, “Did it hurt?”

I immediately wished I could go back in time and take back my stupid question, but he didn’t laugh. “No Tam, not too much.” And then he began to tell me his story, the accident, the hospital, his surgery and subsequent recovery. I listened and soon I was no longer angry at him, just emotionally exhausted. I listened and I wondered if he remembered that night so long ago.

]]> http://www.livedtotell.com/2008/07/02/stories-in-scars/feed/ 12 http://www.livedtotell.com/2008/03/06/pity-fuck-me/ http://www.livedtotell.com/2008/03/06/pity-fuck-me/#comments Thu, 06 Mar 2008 22:22:20 +0000 Tammy http://www.livedtotell.com/2008/03/06/pity-fuck-me/

A few years back whilst at work, I was operating a dough sheeter to roll out puff pastry. The sheeter was located next to the time clock, so I often had constant streams of people asking me who was punched in, who was out, who was on lunch etc. I found it irritating, to say the least, and I really only attempted to answer truthfully if a supervisor asked. On this particular day a young man approached, walking with difficulty. I had seen a coworker get his hand caught in the sheeter, fracturing several fingers, so I merely used my peripheral vision to glance quickly. I figured he was a visitor, perhaps a relative of an employee. When he made it to the cards and reached for one I remained silent as it took him fifteen minutes to grasp his card and drop it in the slot. The whole time was agonizing. He said nothing, but I wondered if I should offer assistance. As I rubbed the dough down with more flour and checked its thickness I glanced at him again. From the way he held his hands and his walk it appeared to me that he had cerebral palsy.

Hours later when my supervisor and I had time to slip out back for a quick smoke break I asked her who he was. She explained that his name was Ben and he worked in a separate part of the buildings. Our paths had never crossed before because we worked opposing shifts, but with the upcoming holiday everyone was on overtime. I wondered aloud to her what job he could do as his hands were practically frozen at his chest and his gait suggested wheelchair needed more than high volume, fast paced production work. She exhaled a long stream of smoke, smashed out her cigarette, and said his parents were friends with the owners. I nodded.

As the days went by I was introduced to him and we started doing the hi and the bye and the have a nice day. When bread roll season arrived he started hanging around my area at the moment I was racking up the rolls and rolling them to the cooling area. The kid had a good nose and an affinity for fresh from the oven bread. Even though I had been sternly warned by the owner about the employees eating the profits and instructed to make anyone who asked for one to produce a receipt I turned a blind eye to Ben’s sneaky fingers. He started smiling a lot in my direction.

Soon after, pie season hit its peak and I struggled to keep up. When the orders hit the thousands I was promised a helper. There I was, filling and topping pies, when who should appear but Ben. I had trained several women to make pies before Ben and I told them to try to keep my pace. I could fill, top, egg wash and sugar a pie in 45-60 seconds. To Ben I just showed him the steps and let him try. So much egg wash, intended for the lip of the bottom crust, ended up in the fruit filling while he was trying to work the pastry brush that I feared he was turning them to quiche. After a few hours I had him sprinkle the sanding sugar for me while I did the other steps. He was quite chatty, rather smiley, and I found myself liking having him around just to help the hours fly by.

Soon he was in my station everyday. He told me his life story, in a way, but he never mentioned his disability. I did my breathing exercises through the panic attacks that kept washing over me while I worked and smiled at his jokes, funny or no. At some point, as it always has when I’ve worked side by side with anyone for awhile, the topic turned to sex. He admitted that at 24 he was still a virgin and had never even had a date, let alone a girlfriend. When he said that he would probably never get laid, not ever, I looked up from my work as he tried to push his glasses up off of his nose, leaving a slimy smear of egg and course sugar across his face. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” I told him, “If I was single and younger I’d totally go out with you.” His smile lit up his whole face and I felt good to have made him smile. He was a nice guy and I wondered to myself if I knew anyone I could set him up with.

I thought that I had handled myself well until the other bakers started teasing me about my new boyfriend. Apparently, Ben had mentioned my comment about how I said I would date him, only he substituted the word “fuck” for “date”. I was mad at Ben and shocked for a moment until my coworkers started talking about how Ben couldn’t even get a pity fuck and he was destined to remain a virgin unless he hired a prostitute and paid big.

“You didn’t really mean that you would fuck him, did ya?” they asked me. I decided that I needed to put an end to this so I selected my words carefully. “How do you know I haven’t already?” The whole kitchen erupted into laughter, hoots and hollers.

Later as I was pulling off my hair net and tugging on my coat I saw Ben again. This time he was with the other guys and they were teasing him about me and slapping him on the back. His eyes met mine and he waited for that instant, his eyes shifty, nervous. I smiled at him and winked as I left the building.

Chantix, day seven. Or six, I can’t remember. Years ago, I had a lovely female psychiatrist who got me started on the road to wellness with the aid of sample boxes from every pharmaceutical rep. she made acquaintance with. She knew that I could barely afford our household expenses at that time, let alone expensive co-pays for name brand meds that hadn’t released generic versions yet, and so she really went out of her way to help me out. She also removed every single package insert from every box she gave me because she believed that if I read those inserts I might be inclined to develop the side effects listed therein. She was a smart woman. How did she know that? She later dumped me over the phone, calming trying to explain that she felt it would be better if I found another doctor, and as I stood there in my kitchen, my legs giving way beneath me, I cried, feeling as if I had been dumped by a boyfriend I still really really wanted to be with.

Anyway, she hasn’t been around me in years, and now I navigate the waters of prescriptions with the inserts intact. I am lucky and blessed even to have good health insurance that makes my pills affordable. When I first started Chantix I skimmed the package insert. I ended up tossing it aside.

The first side effect I noticed was a funny taste in my mouth when I smoked then came a funny smell in my nose. The next day I noticed that a pot of lentil soup I had prepared from scratch tasted so unbearably salty I couldn’t eat it. It had tasted fine the day before. The next day I noticed the unbearable stench of cat piss, as well as a lack of appetite. I blamed all of this on CHANTIX until I realized I had forgotten to clean the cat box. I vowed to quit being ridiculous and went on without another thought until the stomach upset came and I blamed it on hypochondria. Progress!

A few nights later I snuggled into bed and quickly feel asleep. It was time for the deliciously erotic sex dream to begin. I flew to Las Vegas to meet a man. He picked me up in a town car. As we sped along the freeway he joked that I was the only person he knew who would show up in Vegas with only four dollars. I open my purse and sure enough, four bucks are there, nothing else. There was a nervous tension that I ended with the slightest of kisses, short, soft and sweet. When we arrived at the hotel we got into the huge shower and began to lather each other. With our hands we made so many bubbles, there was slippery skin, fingers everywhere, teasing, and waiting. There were those huge soft white robes to climb into. I have always wanted one of those robes.

Next we are on the bed and I was watching us from above, his hands sliding slowly over my body. There were no scars or stretch marks or saggy skin on me. This is dream sex. After pinching me, pulling me, teasing me, I was ready. He slid his hands under my bottom and lifted me to him and…my back went out. No kidding. I threw my back out having sex in my dream. When I woke up my back was throbbing and I could hardly walk. It’s been like this for three days now.

I am writing this from my bed on my stomach because it hurts too much to sit in a chair.

FUCKING DAMN YOU CHANTIX!

P.S. Without even trying, I am smoking about half what I was. I have a callous on my right thumb from flicking my lighter, so that’s really saying something.

Never could I have dated. I am too self conscious, too unaware of the rules, the jargon; too willing to hide myself as well as I can without exploring the possibilities of someone else discovering me. My husband knows me, but it remains unspoken; a space between us that doesn’t exist; a topic only broached if I bring it up or he vents in frustration, which is rare.

Having spent years in the kitchen doing food service related jobs, I became used to hanging out and working with men. As a teenager it was easy to feel that I fit in as just one of the guys, but when I returned to the kitchen as a baker at age 29, after spending ten years screwing around and watching Sesame Street; I was hopelessly, impossibly out of touch.

I kept quiet as I did my job, trying hard to keep up with the younger stronger men who seemed like boys to me. As I worked I would listen to their back and forth banter with a smile on my face. I quickly realized the three stages they went through on their shifts: Hunger, Horniness, and Sleepiness. A few of them went through the stages in that order, others mixed it around a bit before they clocked off.

I had no problem with their crude humor; their attempts to shock me were futile. I had the dirtiest mind out of the whole crew. As I grew more relaxed in the environment I entered into their conversations. For the most part I did alright, but I embarrassed myself, and a few of them, by not having any idea what they were talking about on a few occasions. Once, a coworker was telling me a story about getting a reach around. I stopped him and asked, “Hey, what’s a reach around?” He stopped, tomato red, speechless. I seriously wanted to know, but it wasn’t until my older female supervisor who had been listening from the next station pulled me aside and told me that it clicked in my head.

Around Halloween, pumpkin pie season started. We made so many gallons of pumpkin pie filling we had to use garbage cans to store it in. At first the smell was a refreshing change, the color gave a bit of visual interest to what can become a mundane task, until finally it settled into a crusty orange substance I had to scrape off my shoes. We mixed that pie filling and teased each other with the huge paddles and whisks, pointed out the spanking possibilities with the giant size kitchen utensils, labeled the cans with masking tape and sharpies and tried to wheel them into the walk in coolers without tipping them over.

After a fortnight or so I started to notice the labels were changing. Someone had written, “Blumpkin Pie Filling” on one, another one was labeled, “Plumpkin Pie Filling”. My boss, looking at the buckets with me one evening to assess whether we needed to make more, pointed and said, “These young boys today, they cannot spell.” I nodded my head, pretending to understand the gravity of generation Y, and waited. As soon as I could I asked one of the other bakers about blumpkins and plumpkins. He shook his head NO.

I waited until I had a spare moment with Alex at home and mentioned it to him. He shook his head, sighed and told me the meaning. I asked him how it could be that we could have lived together for so many years and I didn’t know what he knew. “I’ll bet you know what a reach around is too!” I said, and he did. I had held his penis a million times and the thought had never occurred to me. I told him that the guys at work were laughing at me and he laughed too.

The jokes at work grew tiring eventually and everyone settled into a more reserved state of chronic fatigue as the holidays approached. Thanksgiving and Christmas are not the most wonderful time of the year for a baker. As I stirred the pumpkin filling with the four foot whisk my eyes burned and filled with tears, making the sea of orange with flecks of spices blur, then disappear completely.

“Tammy?” Rodney said from across the kitchen where he stood mixing chocolate cake batter for Yule logs, “How far south do you go?” I looked at him for a second and answered, “I’ve been as far as the California Mexico border before turning back.” As the laughter broke out in the room I realized; I’d done it yet again.

First, a big thank you to Robyn for linking to me and sending so many readers my way. It is very exciting to have someone I have been reading for so many years find my journal and recommend it.

I have been answering a larger than normal array of emails, which has been fun, really, as I like to get to know my readers better. Due to the fact that I have publicly shared my own battles with child abuse and drug addiction, depression and panic disorder, it is not uncommon for people to tell me of their own struggles. What I haven’t learned is how to achieve a balance between writing here and answering email. So here I am again, and if you’re still waiting for a response from me I hope to get caught up on all email this weekend.

From the comments: Lori, thank you for pointing out your new url. I was indeed wondering where you had gone and was about to get all stalkerish and email you. MichelleW why oh why didn’t I know about the pain that is Spanx before I wasted my money? I should have known better when the overenthusiastic woman at the clothing store kept pushing them on me, telling me that, “Oprah recommended them” and “She’s got like a trillion dollars and can have the best of anything so you know if she’s using them they must be good…”

Belle, I loved this line , “As long as it holds the fluff in and the straps are wide enough, I’m happy!” Fluff! I might have to borrow that word.

In other news, I have had a rough week with the depression and the anxiety. Sometimes I can go quite some time forgetting I even have panic attacks and then bang! one will hit, hard. The same goes for my depression. I could feel myself slipping lower and lower after my nanny died so I thought it was related to that. I emailed my favorite cousin because chatting with him always makes me feel better and he wrote back describing the funeral and I felt worse. It is hard to be so far away from family.

I contacted my doctor and she wanted to speak with me again face to face. I told her about the constant sadness, the thoughts of suicide, the never ending anxiety , and the panic attacks that come from nowhere and I can’t seem to calm down. She likes to play around with my medication so I didn’t even want to be there, even though I really like my doctor, and not only because she uses google when she can’t remember something. She’ll just log on to the computer while we’re talking and double check something. I don’t know why I find that endearing but it might have something to do with the fact that she doesn’t hide it, she’s just human. Plus, she laughs at my jokes. That is a big requirement in a doctor.

I have been smoking so much lately that I have a permanent wheeze. My doctor asked me to try Chantix. The only problem is Chantix has been linked to depression and suicide. I went ahead and filled the prescription. When the pharmacist called me over for a consult, she asked more questions than she ever has, “What other methods had I tried?” Well, I tried cold turkey but I am a vegetarian, so that one didn’t work and I tried Wellbutrin but my anxiety went up so much I stopped it after a month because my smoking doubled, and I tried the gum, but I could remember to tuck it into my cheek, I kept chewing it, and I tried the nicotine patches but they didn’t work either. She asked if I had nightmares while using the patches and I said no, but as I told her, I had the wildest, sexist dreams I have ever had in my life. Seriously. I almost kept using the patch for the aphrodisiac properties. That was all I needed to say. Drug stuffed in bag and I was out the door.

I am committed to getting healthier. The photo above shows me starting the day with a well rounded breakfast. Alex brought cookies home  because they were left over from some meeting he had at work. Waste is wrong and I had to have one.

There are a few online journals that I have been reading for so many years that I can’t remember when or where I found them. There is Heather , who is also the founder of Scarleteen ; there is Noah Grey, who recently started writing again after the death of his husband, and Jane from JanesGuide. Jane is no longer writing a journal so when I received an email from her old notify list I was excited to click on it, thinking that she had changed her mind. She was pointing out a contest on her site where she would be giving away sex toys. I commented and won. I was shocked because I wasn’t even thinking about that when I commented. It was nice to correspond with her via email after reading about her for close to ten years. I had a similarly heartwarming moment earlier this year when Heather emailed me and offered her friendship when I was trying to decide about the hysterectomy. I’ll keep the details of the sex toys I won a secret for now in case Alex peeks in here, although he usually doesn’t read, because the package of goodies is a surprise for him for Christmas.

Jane asked me what size T shirt I wanted and I said that I didn’t have the body for the shirts, having seen her wearing one on her site. She sent me two anyway, because she is sweet like that.

As much as I think breasts are beautiful: my breasts, your breasts, all breasts; I have spent the years of my life between nine years old and today hiding mine under baggy clothes. When my package arrived I tried on one of the shirts from Jane and walked by Alex. This man has seen my breasts for almost two decades and he might be just a wee bit bored with them by now, but he actually turned away from the computer and stared at me. I felt funny, strange, self conscious.

I am trying to raise my daughter to love her body just they way it is and I can’t love myself. How does that even work? Today I took a picture of myself wearing one of the shirts. I was trying to get a close up of the words, but it’s still hard to read. The shirt says “This is Jane. (Jane likes it dirty)”

I was thinking about the women I have known who have lost their breasts to cancer. I thought about their strength and their sense of humor regarding the subject. I’ve never been able to fathom strength like that. Everyday I hope that I can get just a little bit more comfortable in my own skin; in my own mind.

Thank you Jane for the beautifully wrapped gifts. I was very touched by your thoughtfulness and the handwritten card.

Being in a relationship for 19 years means that certain rules are established; there is no need to speak of them, they are silently there. Since my husband works the graveyard shift things are a little wacky in the rules department, but I stupidly thought we had established rules for when it is OK to wake one another up years ago. In order for me to wake him up, it must be a true bona fide emergency. That is the only rule, and I’d better be sure that is in an emergency, not a pseudo-emergency, otherwise he’ll whine about it all day.

In order for him to wake me up the following rules apply:

1) He wants sex? Sure, wake me. 99% of the time I am game as long as he doesn’t expect any reverse cowgirl acrobatics or anything else that requires amazing amounts of physical exertion and/or stamina on my part.

2) One of the kids is sick? Yes, wake me immediately.

3) One of the animals just barfed or shit on the floor? If he wakes me I will clean up the mess, go back to bed, and then secretly wish death on him for the rest of the day because he didn’t deal with it himself.

4) He can’t find something? I say no on this one, but he does it all of the time. He can’t find the Advil? He wakes me. It isn’t on the medicine cabinet so I get up and find it sitting on the desk or on top of the fridge. I shoot him hate rays as he blames me for things not being in their place. Apparently, as wife and mother, I am responsible for the proper whereabouts of every item in the house. This has happened with things in the fridge. I have stumbled out of bed, shoved aside the milk and pointed to the mustard, and then fallen back into bed. My word on this one is look harder for said item, or live without it.

5) To ask me if I am hungry? No. I am not hungry. I am tired. That is why I am sleeping. I must admit that I have caused this one to backfire on me many times when he has set a warm plate of freshly cooked hash browns by my head in the middle of the night and I have eaten them eagerly.

This morning, before the sun had its chance to rise, something new happened. I heard a loud whisper above my head, “Are you awake?” I mumbled “mmmm hmmmm” and he asked, “Could you tell me if this noodle is done?” I looked up and saw him standing there with a strand of spaghetti over my head. I mumbled something to the effect of “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep. He used to work as a chef in an Italian restaurant for fuck’s sake.

Apparently, the rules are not yet carved in stone; there are variables. I did feel almost guilty when I finally woke up and ate his leftover spaghetti for breakfast though.

Nathan reads S.E.X. by Heather Corinna

Polly reads the brand new Harry Potter book.