I’m losing weight and it’s not just physical. I am shedding layers and I wish I could say the loss was bringing me home. But it feels a lot like losing my map, or my guide or something that I’d need to survive. They say I look great, and it feels the same as when he would tell me I’m wrong, that his eye’s didn’t reflect a high I know too well. That the bruises aren’t from him, and my anger broke the mirror into pieces. When they say I am glowing, it feels just like that. The loose clothes and collar bones aren’t standards of beauty in this story, although they make for a prettier corpse.
I made a bagel this afternoon, with all the toppings my body craved. It has sat beside me for four hours growing stale and the longer it sits, the more appetizing it becomes. Isn’t that a metaphor. Isn’t that why I wait until something is rotten before I consume it. My therapist will probably trace this back to my father, and I’ll deny he even existed. My friends will turn the lights on, and I’ll refuse to open my eyes. My phone will ring, I will shatter it across the floor and in that moment, I’ll remember him. I see him and I only in pieces and fragments, never whole. Never solid. Never strong. I see him in everything that is broken. Which is another metaphor to why I see him with me.