I wouldn't change a thing

I don't paint my nails often because I smudge them, I bite them, I dig my thumbnail down in the base of its neighbors while I'm waiting, while I'm telling a lie, while I'm half a mind gone. When I'm do paint them, I'm glad when you notice.

I woke up at midnight and the music from before I'd turned out the light was still playing--the mix cd from the wedding last weekend. Over and over You Light Up My Life.

I hate hate hate--as much anyone would--the feeling of helplessness when I can't take away the pain of someone I love. I want to thrust my fingernails under your skin, being careful not to leave a bruise, and pull out the offending aches and viruses. Wind them up around a spool and throw it in the fire.

I am dumbly trying to reward myself for good behavior with bad. I can walk for hours and stretch out my muscles until the sweat collects in drops all along my chest, down my stomach, running down to my ankles. And then I can crawl up into my bed with a pint of ice cream, and that ache of non-instant gratification dulls. It's a loss, on the whole, but my legs stretch further than they used to. I pull my arms into my side and can watch the muscles underneath my freckled shoulders bunch. I'll learn.

I'm afraid of going home. I mean, the old home. I am almost in tears when I think about the slot I used to slide into that has since closed and healed. I'm going anyway.

I am grateful to have someone to tease me onto the floor and plant a kiss on my forehead. I am grateful to have someone look past all my bumps and blotches and wayward hair and still call me beautiful.

I listened to a recording of a performance I gave five years ago--I stood on center stage backed up by an orchestra and played a concerto. I listened to it three times in a row because the first time listening through didn't go well and the second time I was hanging upside down and the blood was rushing to my face, but then the third time I was careful, and I was thankful that I did that once, and that I have proof. Because at least I can put myself in the shoes of the me who thought that was possible.

Last night I dreamed I was lost in the rain on a bike with tires losing pressure and I couldn't call for help because my cellphone had no service because a couch had been moved in the way. Which is really no crazier--or at least not much crazier--than the actuality of me, with the needing help and refusing to ask for it and the glacial cool that's actually just fear and the mercurial back and forth that makes up my evenings and nights.

I'm healing. I don't think I'll always be so sober. I mean, I think I'll learn to find the joy in it all again. We'll get there at the same time.