Who decided on the definition of nature?

When I hear about the hamsters that eat their babies, and then my mom threatens to kick me out... It all makes sense. And black widows eat their partners after sex... How many girls feed their exes to the rumors? Who says the flowers aren't talking or we're not listening?

Who decided that nature was something lonely in the mountains and not the amount of cuss words it took until you were satisfied? Who decided that nature was defined by interactions between all wild animals... except the way you scream at your mom and she screams back? Who decided that nature was hitting rocks together to make fire instead of using a lighter and gasoline? Why can't we go back to the cavemen days when nature called hairy legs sexy regardless of the gender?

Is it human nature to remember or human nature to forget?

To bite fingernails when anxiety creeps in? Singing along to the radio? Getting high? Popping knuckles? Wishing on stars? Candles? Clocks? Praying to God?

I think about falling in love like God's limiting your oxygen intake bit by bit and then you find an oxygen mask. Like you're drowning so slowly you weren't even aware of it until he pulled you out of the water, and love was your lifesaver. You held onto love as it pulled you to shore, but love let go and allowed you to flail in the water just long enough to teach you to swim on your own. But you crave love because your legs and arms are so damn tired of treading water. Love is a strange thing.

And humans loved each other even if she liked her coffee too sweet and the lamplight was too dim when they were counting their imperfections.

I hear about how the moon resents the American flag sticking out of her skin.

The birds and bees resent being linked together and whoever the idiot was that linked the two of them to sex. It's not symbolic.

And the cat resents whoever stole her pajamas.

Here's to the rain that never forms the shape of cats and dogs, but tries her little heart out. Here's to the crickets that try to break the silence, but only serve to enhance the awkwardness. Here's to the little birds who are forever trying to tell us something. Here's to the cats still in their bags.

I hear about how humans tend to fall in love. And humans tend to misinterpret lust as love. Because hair can be nice if it's on a chest or a face but not if that chest or face happens to belong to a girl. And goats have rectangular pupils if you look close enough.

And we're redefining nature. Because nature is an ingrown toenail. Indigestion. Popping pills. Sidewalk chalk. Rollie pollie ollies and their scientific name. Solubility. Americans who have tried more diets than sex partners. Stubbing your toe. First kisses. The exercise bike in your extra room upstairs. Counting calories and slowing your heart rate. And I said we're redefining nature. Because we might have been looking close before, but now we're looking closer. Nature is looking close enough.

The Pond

No white trash please.
And no black trash either.

Thank you God for the whites. For his pearly whites. For the hollow white of disappointment. For the expectant white. For the white of a letter sealed with spit and a postage stamp.

The bathroom stalls here are all too familiar. Tips for the future: Arrange a hookup in the men's bathroom instead of the women's. I have a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy. And no, it isn't because I disagree with Obama or I agree with Clinton or I wouldn't wrestle a boy. It's because I'm standing on a tightrope and two words will push me off, and I'm afraid of what side I'll land on.

There's a dead fish floating on the surface of the pond. But this isn't an open casket viewing. Onlookers slow the rhythm of their footsteps, but not one stops. Throw food at me, but not coins, cuz I could preach and preach, but I couldn't move one of them to place flowers on the grave.

My Bones Told Me

People tell me I'm smart. But I don't understand the Space Camp prompt.

But I can tell you this. I want to be the kind of good that doesn't go away.

My bones told me I was fragile, but I didn't want to believe them. I didn't want them to tell me that I couldn't jump off buildings or I couldn't touch my toes. I didn't want them to tell me I wasn't invincible. And with all 206 of their voices competing for attention, the silence too loud, my lungs couldn't distinguish what was necessity, what was want, and what was a cry for help... And I still couldn't find the courage to pray to God.

My heart told me it was breakable. And I still didn't want to believe it even after I broke it myself.

My eyes told me that navy will never be the new black. That we all worship the 80's for their music, but we don't appreciate the 60's nearly enough.

My skin told me that it hurts from all the words I never say out loud. They told me, "Confidence looks real good on you, but you've never been able to shed society's expectations. You've never been able to get to the second skin." The expectations of the 9 to 5 job. The 9 to 5 job with the 12 to 5 body. I wanted to have it all, and then some.

I swear I'm living, but I've never laughed until I've cried. I've never bought those cheap rings in the gumball machines for 25 cents. I don't know if falling in love at fifteen counts with God, or if not being able to say "no" equals love, weakness, or something in between. I've never fully convinced myself of the brokenness of the human race. No matter how many times I tried.

I wanted to go to debate camp to learn how to say "fuck you" politely. But I think I learned it on my own.

Yellow.

For all this talk of wanting to be found, there are points in my life when I desperately want to get lost.

And Nelson, you told me not to write a post about death in light of what's happened. But Nelson, I just can't get it off of my mind. Maybe I have to write in order to gather my thoughts. To sort them into nice, neat little categories before I can push them aside to the remote corners of my brain. But these categories are hard to label. The taste of charcoal. The smell of the yellow walls. Incoherent. Asking for water. Asking for water. Throwing up. Looking for love on the whiteboard because of the nurses' promises, and staring at the <3 for what it was instead of a pain management goal.

Because I was the Titanic and Monday was just another unassuming iceberg floating along in the Atlantic.

What came first? Learning the "F word" or forgetting how to share? Earning my stripes or my stretch marks? Screwing boys or scaring you shitless? I didn't start swearing because I have a small vocabulary. I started swearing because I have a large vocabulary, and swear words are an additional ten.

Eyes don't tell you near as much about a person as their skin. How much they're showing and how much they're not showing. And my pants kept slipping down and my gown slid off my shoulders, but I was too sick to care.

Yellow was the color of my hospital room. Yellow was the color they painted the walls in the name of no more suicide attempts. The color of the bins at UNI. The hat. The suicide note I should have written. Trapped.

White was the color of the flowers my grandparents sent. The color of my face. The color of the Tylenol.

Green was the color my grandparents wore when they flew from Colorado to visit me for my birthday.That night they told me they would love me no matter what. That night my grandma hushed my grandpa for talking too loud in "a place like this." The color of the courtyard, barred in. Birthday money.

Blue. The bruising from the IV's. The scrubs. Waking up in the hospital on my eighteenth birthday.

Pink was the color of the bins at Primary Children's. The first suicide note I wrote. The shirt my aunt sent.

Black was the color of the charcoal. The color of the pills rising to the surface. The color of the druggies' words they spit. Drug references, suicide references.

God's given me a second chance. But all I can think about is what I've done with the first chance. Hope was the water before the fall. The shout before the break. God tells me to marry the light, but the darkness is still so alluring. Even though I've learned Death's a bitch when she gets close. She's seductive as hell from a distance, and when she's got you in a committed relationship with no way out, she takes off her makeup, she takes off her heels, she forgets. She forgets you only fell for her because you were chasing a mirage. Her lips bruise your throat with the faintest touch.

I can't tell you a lot about what Death is, but I can tell you a lot about what Death is not. Death is not kind. Death is not a peaceful way to go. Death is not yellow, but I learned she is not all black either. Death is not feminine with her hands wrapped delicately around your throat, but Death is definitely a woman. Death is not satisfied by a suicide attempt.

I don't know a lot of things. I don't know why I'm waiting for God's number to appear on my contact list. I don't know why Warren Buffet keeps offering his billion dollars when he knows no one will submit the perfect draw. I don't know why we have two hearts or why one heart beats out of my chest in response to my other heart or why we cry over spilt milk. I don't know why I keep asking bones questions expecting an answer or why they answer in question format. I don't know why the sky is blue or why the sun is yellow or why I see colors instead of black and white. I don't know why you're stuck in my dreams and I don't know why I wake up wishing you would get the fuck out of my head. Because they're such pleasant nightmares.

And the world was ending, and no one cared. And we found indifference one blank stare at a time. But I couldn't remove my doubts far enough from my mind to achieve the same blank stare. But I tried.

Maybe everything I write is meant to be depressing. Maybe those neon painted fingernails are really stars and every time she pounds the keyboard, she's making her world go round. She's interspersing sex and dying with the sounds of laughter and she doesn't know any other way to survive. Maybe she likes to be surprised by her smile. Maybe she likes to be surprised at the little things.

And swallowing those pills still didn't teach her who would show up at her funeral.

Dear Eating Disorder

Hi my name is hope.

Dear Ed,

One of the girls at Center for Change sang "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles for the talent show. She said that it described her relationship with you best, and so last weekend, I played that song over and over again. The part talking about how she felt so strong in your arms, even though you loved her because she was fragile. Then you took even that fragile strength she had. About coming back to you and it never taking long. I can relate so much when I want nothing more but to be in your gravity, even though you keep me down. 

I feel like you and I are the definition of a love-hate relationship. I've written this letter so many times, both in my head and on paper, and I only wrote the negative aspects. I tried to convince myself that there was no reason I ever fell for you in the first place. I never wrote about the longing. You know all the physical shit already. I lost my bone density, especially in my jaw, fucked up my kidneys, lowered my blood pressure, my body temperature, lost my hair... My immune system was weak. My arms and legs were numb all the time due to poor blood circulation. You shot my self esteem and my self worth. The migraines. Increased my isolation and obsessive thoughts, lowered my ability to concentrate, increased my depression, increased my fatigue off the charts, etc, etc, etc. Increased, increased, increased. I was dependent on you.

I turned to you because you were safe when I feared rejection, but you only heightened those fears. I turned to you to feel worthwhile, but as soon as a skinnier girl walked into the room, I might as well have been worthless. Your voice was then in my head: "You didn't restrict enough today. You can't eat anything else for the rest of the night. You have to eat less tomorrow. 200 calories. I don't care if you burn calories or not. You will never be good enough if you keep messing up. Your body will never look as good as hers unless you get your act together. Purge, for God's sake. Binge to numb it all out. If you're fat, you're better off dead." You told me you offered protection and safety, and as long as I didn't eat, I was comforted. It didn't matter if I committed all seven of the deadly sins if I was thin. If I had no friends, because I was thin. If I couldn't play tennis anymore because of the health complications that came with Ed. Thin became my identity. But you gave me expectations I could never reach and always left me feeling "never good enough." For you, let alone anyone else. You took the role of the manipulative boyfriend, and you told me to get rid of my friends to make room for you. And I did because I trusted you. Because I love you.

And I still love you even though you betray me. Even though you punish me and guilt trip me and control me and lie to me. And even though I know that your words are nothing but lies... When you say that skinny will make me invincible and skinny will make me happy and skinny is salvation, I believe it every single time. Those small highs were the most addictive drug in the world. And even though you told me that I should kill myself rather than weigh over 115 lbs, than go through weight restoration, yesterday there I was begging for you back. You are the epitome of I can't live with you and I can't live without you. And you're knocking on my door, especially when I get told I can avoid crying in the dressing room if I was just a few sizes smaller again. And I don't know how to be strong enough to turn away from you, to resist you, to say no over and over again... Because your sex is so divine, kid.

But I want to. I want to remember how wrong I was to ever include you in my life, on my knees begging for you back over and over and over again no matter how many times you told me I was worthless. No matter how many times you told me I should be ashamed of living. But I hate how you make me feel special, regardless of how many girls in the US have eating disorders. Regardless of how many girls have their own versions of you sitting on their laps and regardless of how many other girls you're sleeping with. You. You encouraged me to look at pro anna or pro mia websites until I never wanted to eat again. But you gave me mixed messages. Because as soon as I messed up with that carb or that dessert, you told me to binge. Binge until it was painful to cram more food down my throat. Numb it all out. And then continue to punish myself with the purging. And the point was not to get caught. But if my mom said I was lying about purging, you'd like me to do it in front of her right then. Prove my love for you in the most disturbing way possible. You're the type of person who never knows what you want. Because when I can barely walk a mile because of the fatigue, it isn't you. But when I lose weight, you want all the credit in the world. 

I was eight when you started coming onto me, you pedophile. I swore off treats, then snacks, and eventually told everyone I was gluten-free to avoid excessive calories. You convinced me food's only purpose was to fatten me up. Truth: I had a session with Lauren where she tried to convince me sauces and spreads would not make me gain more weight than other foods. And we tried talking through it rationally, but there's nothing rational about you. You told me that if I was skinny, my mom would accept me. Because my mom never accepted her own body. And then I developed other coping skills that worked just as well as you did. *Sarcasm. And you convinced me boys only wanted me because I weighed under a hundred pounds, and now you're in my head telling me that boys never want the fat girl. But I don't have to believe your lies because you're jealous I left. I changed for the better and it's you who stayed the same. 

Rehab was hell. I was never alone. I could not go to the bathroom without a tech listening with the door cracked. But if you had certain precautions, the door was open, and they had to watch me from the corner of their eye. They had to flush the toilet for me. Supervise me washing my hands, brushing my teeth. I could not drop a pea on the ground without getting supplemented with boost or getting a single pea replaced from the kitchen. Could only have a certain number of boosts a week or you were phase dropped. Two boost refusals and it was the feeding tube. And it hurts to think that was my reality for so long, because none of you will ever understand what it is like eating a bite of your fear foods and having the whole table congratulate you afterwards. Or cheering for the girls who finally lost their feeding tubes by eating a couple snacks. Or watching the runners get tackled. And you ask why I'm still having trouble adjusting.

I used to be so sure that I was better off without you. I used to feel so empowered. I thought that I had coping skills. And even though they didn't give me the highs that you did, they didn't give me the lows that you did either. I know I deserve better than you. But slowly, I'm crawling back...

Love,

Lxxx

P.S. Watch this. It's a dance video about addiction. It gives me chills. 

I'm real.

You told me you didn't know my name. And again I was afraid of fading into the smoke.

You compared me to Miley Cyrus. I didn't know if you meant my hair or that I was trying too hard to break away from my Disney reputation. The reputation that everyone had glued in the back of their minds and they're now second guessing after watching the VMA's performance over and over.. I still don't know how to twerk.

Sometimes I feel like a celebrity, and that makes me afraid. Because everyone knows celebrity gossip, but how well does everyone know the celebrity? Because celebrities have a lot of fans and a lot of not-so-fans. Because celebrities have a lot of followers on Twitter, but how many of them can they call up on the weekends when their heart breaks? Because people talk about celebrities like they're a different breed. Because people say childhood stars fuck themselves over. Because celebrities can count on their hands the amount of real friends they have just like anybody else.

There's that word again. Real.

I didn't make up random shit so that you could pity me. I did shave my head. Friend me on Facebook for the pictures. I did go to rehab. That would be a hell of a lie to keep up BTdubs. I do have an eating disorder. A mood disorder. I am suicidal. I did attempt last March. And I did say the "f word" in class today because I was pissed at that kid's comment. (I'm sorry about that Nelson. I'll try to keep it classy next time).

But I'm scared I'm too real. I'm scared the kid that posts about being schizo isn't. I'm scared the kid that posts about his girlfriend is single. I'm scared that the girl who heard me read my second poem at Muse thinks I was making a joke about rehab just for more attention. I was scared when I admitted I had an eating disorder in front of the whole class, and I was scared when I told you my fear food. Sauces. I'm sorry I was never good at fitting in.

Let me introduce the real me, who you've been dying to meet all along, but you weren't looking hard enough in the brands of the clothes I wore. In who I talked to in the hallways. In the way you said my name.
I'm scared of equality. I won't know what else is worth protesting in the streets. I'm scared it won't live up to society's expectations.
Who's afraid of dying too early? Dying too late? Who's afraid of living past their prime?
I'm afraid. I'm afraid of contradictions and double thinking.
What if my beliefs are wrong? My beliefs are right? The Mormons are right? (Please don't come knocking on my door).
I'm afraid.
I'm tired of getting the answers to the questions I was too scared to ask out loud.
I'm afraid of happiness because depression is getting so damn comfortable in bed with me.
That no one believes my truths and everyone believes my lies.
I'm afraid of oblivion. Of inadequacy. Of incompetence. Of failure. Of the judgment that naturally follows.
Of being Alice lost in Wonderland.

I'm afraid of disappointing my parents.

I'm afraid of you. Because you, yes, you, are capable of anything, darling. And that includes breaking my heart in three easy steps. You always told me I was too weak and I was too vulnerable, but you never told me I was the China doll fragile or the first kiss naive. I was trying to be the Hulk for you, but my strength gave out when I ran out of passion.

I'm afraid of contact sports because my mom told me not to talk to strangers, let alone get cozy with them.
I'm afraid of lackluster sex after Hollywood showed me how to make love.
I'm afraid the Superbowl is a bitch in person, but she's real nice on the telly.
I'm afraid of bikini shopping with you after your last girlfriend was a model.
I'm afraid I'm just another one of his exes. Just another student that graduated Lone Peak. Just another Broncos fan.
I'm afraid of Love and I'm afraid of Hate. I'm afraid I'm dating both of them.
I'm afraid you're not reading this. I'm afraid you're reading this. Tell me what you're thinking.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid.

Don't tell me you don't care what people think. Is that why you wore makeup even when your friend was dying?

Today I was finally brave enough to walk down the hall without my eyes glued to my cell phone. I'm finally brave enough to look up.

Because I'm just so tired. Tired of being afraid.

This Weekend in a Nutshell

This is a post without pictures.

And if you spend millions on rehab, you still can't prevent the relapse.

My friend was ranting to me on Thursday. "He's still an addict. Even after he went to rehab twice. Rehab's expensive, you know. Now his parents have trouble making house payments. And after all this, he's still an addict. He's so selfish!" It was the word "selfish" that stood out like it was bolded on the page. I tried to defend him. Tell her about the reality of addiction. Tried to justify it in my own head. But I couldn't get the word "selfish" off of my clothes and it seemed to embody me more and more by the second.

Especially because I've relapsed the last two Saturdays.

I'm sorry, Mom.

The art of hook-ups is the only fine art on which I could give a lecture. But I can't tell you anything about commitment. Except that I want it.

I'm sorry, Mom.

Weekends are the hardest. Depression is a slow killer. Depression is bleeding to death from a paper cut. The last thing I wanted to do was recite my list of coping skills. Even though you tried and tried to wake me up, convince me to get dressed, take a shower, eat something. Repeat.

I'm sorry, Mom.

I didn't go to church. And when the cousins came over, I barely asked about the baby. I didn't talk about the mission. About the marriage.

I'm sorry, Mom.

Yesterday, I wished I was dead. I hadn't prayed to Death in three weeks, and I was almost proud. Because you cried when I came clean about my suicide attempt.

I'm the sorriest about that. I'm not sorry I wanted to die. I'm not sorry I tried to make death come sooner than later. I'm sorry that you found out.

And I'm sorry I'm not great at apologies.