Alexa, 19. From Packers-ville, WI. Lover of tattoos, bread, books, and big plans. Athletic and introspective to a fault, this blog makes room for the words and places I wish I knew how to arrive at.

 

Thank You

Hi, love. You’re at work right now and I don’t know that you’ll ever read this seeing as you’ve stopped tumblr-ing for the time being, but I wanted to thank you again.

I turned 20 yesterday, darling girl, and even as you were sick and aching and bed-ridden over 900 miles away you made me feel as though you were waiting behind the door of each room I walked into. Waiting to smile as I entered, waiting to stand up and show me what 5’4” really looks like. Waiting for me to pick you up and hold you in the way we’ve been talking about for the past 3 weeks. Just waiting. And as much as it hurts to be here while you’re there, I love you for waiting for me and for us and for everything that we are going to be.

Because we’re going to be great, Meghan. I promised you I wouldn’t leave, and while I can’t promise you that this won’t hurt, I can tell you with everything in me that it will be entirely worth it. You are worth it. You don’t hear it enough, but you make everything around you brighter. You make me worry less and love more and wish bigger. You make high buns look fashionable and back scratchers look sexy. You can move like no one I’ve ever seen even as your hands are shaking, and you make me want to move with you, no matter the size of the crowd.

I’ve lost myself in you, love. And it’s as scary as it is amazing. But as long as I know you’re out there waiting, I will be here loving you. And I will continue to do so even if you decide that you can’t wait any longer.

So thank you, Meghan. Thank you for waking me up and for being the light that forced me to open my eyes.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eight years old, she’s got pink cheeks that her grandmother calls chubby. She wants a second cookie but her aunt says “you’ll get huge if you keep eating.” She wants a dress and the woman in the changing room says “she’ll probably need a large in that.” She wants to have dessert and her waiter says “After all that dinner you just had? You must be really hungry!” and her parents laugh.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eleven and she is picked second-to-last in gym class. She watches a cartoon and sees that everyone who is annoying is drawn with a big wide body, all sweaty and panting. At night she dreams she is swelling like the ocean over seabeds. When she wakes up, she skips school.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is thirteen and her friends are stick-thin ballerinas with valleys between their hipbones. She is instead developing the wide curves of her mother. She says she is thick but her friends argue that she’s “muscular” and for some reason this hurts worse than just admitting that she jiggles when she walks and she’ll never be a dancer. Eating seconds of anything feels like she’s breaking some unspoken rule. The word “indulgent” starts to go along with “food.”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fourteen and she has stopped drinking soda and juice because they bloat you. She always takes the stairs. She fidgets when she has to sit still. Whenever she goes out for ice cream, she leaves half at the bottom - but someone else always leaves more and she feels like she’s falling. She pretends to like salad more than she does. She feels eyes burrowing through her body while she eats lunch. Kate Moss tells her nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she just feels like she is wilting.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fifteen the first time her father says “you’re getting gaunt.” She rolls her eyes. She eats one meal a day but thinks she stays the same size. Every time she picks up a brownie she thinks of the people she sees on t.v. and every time she has cake, she thinks of the one million magazine articles on restricting calories. She used to have no idea a flat stomach was supposed to be beautiful until she saw advice on how to achieve it. She cuts back on everything. She controls. They tell her she’s getting too thin but she doesn’t believe it.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is sixteen and tearing herself into shreds in order for a thigh gap big enough to hush the screams in her head. She doesn’t “indulge,” ever. She can’t go out with friends, they expect her to eat. She damns her sweet tooth directly to hell. It’s coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and if there’s dance that evening, two cups of water and then maybe an apple. She lies all the time until she thinks the words will rot her teeth. She dreams about food when she sleeps. Her aunt begs her to eat anything, even just a small cookie. They say, “One bite won’t make you fat, will it, darling?”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is seventeen and too sick to go to prom because she can’t stand up for very long. She thinks she wouldn’t look good in a dress anyway. Her nails are blue and not because they are painted. Her hair is too thin to do anything with. She’s tired all the time and always distracted. She once absently mentions the caloric value of grapes to the boy she is with and he looks at her like she’s gone insane and in that moment she realizes most people don’t have numbers constantly scrolling in their heads. She swallows hard and tries to figure out where it all went wrong, why more than a granola bar for a meal makes her feel sick, why she tastes disease and courts with death. She misses sleep. She misses being able to dream. She misses being herself instead of just being empty.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is twenty and writes poetry and is a healthy weight and still fights down the voices every single day. She puts food in her mouth and sometimes cries about it but more and more often feels good, feels balanced. Her cheeks are pink and they are chubby and soft and no longer growing slight fur. Her hair is long and it is beautiful. She still picks herself apart in the mirror, but she’s starting to get better about it. She wears the dress she likes even if it only fits her in a large and she doesn’t feel like a failure for it. She is falling in love with the fat on her hips.

She is eating out with friends and not worrying about finding the lowest calorie item on the menu when she hears a mother tell her four year old daughter “You can’t have ice cream, we just had dinner.
You don’t want to end up as a fat little girl.”

Why do we constantly do this to our children? /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

I look at you
sometimes
and I think to myself,
I don’t mind this,
not one bit.

I can picture
late night walks
and breakfast in bed.
I can picture
the pillow fights
and making dinner
for our friends.
I can picture
chemistry without trying
and your body
on top of mine.

I can picture
all of that,
all the time.

Ming D. Liu (via mingdliu)

(Source: mingdliu)

I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.”

(Source: everdeenes)

Depression is hard to understand, because it is not a consistent state. Depression is rather like a virus, but like a virus, it has its manageable days and its acute, life-threatening flare-ups. You can be in a depression and still laugh at a friend’s joke or have a good night at dinner or manage low-level functioning. You grocery shop and stop to pet a puppy on the corner, talk to friends in a café, maybe write something you don’t hate. When this happens, you might examine your day for clues like reading tea leaves in a cup: Was it the egg for breakfast that made the difference? The three-mile run? You think, well, maybe this thing has moved on now. And you make no sudden moves for fear of attracting its abusive attention again.

But other times…

Other times, it’s as if a hole is opening inside you, wider and wider, pressing against your lungs, pushing your internal organs into unnatural places, and you cannot draw a true breath. You are breaking inside, slowly, and everything that keeps you tethered to your life, all of your normal responses, is being sucked through the hole like an airlock emptying into space. These are the times Holly Golightly called the Mean Reds.

I call it White Knuckling it.

Miles and Miles of No Man’s Land, Libba Bray (via babybirched)

"But the stigma of depression is that it comes with the sense that you shouldn’t have it to begin with. That it is self-indulgence or emotional incompetence rather than actual illness."

(via sonchorizos)

whoa.

(via keeperofthehouse)

When it’s White Knuckle Time, you will have to remind yourself to stand in the middle of the subway platform, well away from the edge.”

There is an undertow to depression. It doesn’t take you all at once. It leaves you with some false sense that you are coping. That you are in control. That you have the shore still well in sight, until, at some point, you raise your head to find yourself all alone, battered by rough seas with absolutely no idea which way you should swim.”

 

Jesus, every damn word of this post. It’s remarkable.

(via foulmouthedliberty)

I think there’s a lot to be said about loving from a distance.
It takes more phone calls and more reassurance,
It takes more tossing in your bed at night, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in by yourself,
It takes more emotion than typical love takes.
Being around someone twenty-four hours a day is easy.
You hold their hand or pick the eye lash off their cheek and hold it out for them to make a wish or buy their favourite tea at the store.
There’s a lot of physical ways to let someone know you love them,
But there really aren’t many ways to let someone know you love them when you’re hundreds of miles apart.
So you find yourself saying “I miss you” 17 times a day
Or “I love you” slipping itself into conversation in places that, had it not been for distance, would otherwise be cold and loveless.
Loving is hard from a distance.
It’s hard and it’s tiring and it’s heartbreaking at times,
But god damn, if you really love the person, it’s worth it.