Ode to Recovery
While little girls and boys were trying to mold clay into flowers, I was trying to mold my body into a Barbie doll. My stomach was the canvas and my hands were the paintbrush, and I tugged at my skin until it was the color of fire and burned. Now I use my hands to hold prayer books and I bless every time my body carries me through the day without wanting to faint. I bless the times I cry through meals but eat anyway. I bless my friends who listen to me vent, even when my problems are too big for them to grasp. I bless my therapists for listening to those big problems. I bless the times where I wake up to men grabbing me in my sleep, but realize that it’s only a nightmare. I bless the nights when I hold a razor blade to flesh but don’t break the skin. I bless the times that I called the suicide hotline. I bless every day that I am alive and every day where being alive isn’t my only accomplishment. I bless fresh air and sunsets and furry cats and sand and all the little things that I can see now that I’ve conquered the big things. And for all these blessings the greatest one of all is the one called recovery.
Horns
When the boy on my
cruise from New Orleans
asked, Where are your horns?
I was completely floored.
Where are my horns, I thought,
clasping my hand over
the Star of David necklace
around my neck.
I went back to my room,
made a cup of tea, and
said goodnight to Grandma.
Gute Nacht, my grandmother
said to me, before tucking
me into bed.
Grandma, I said, has anyone
ever asked you if you had horns?
Oh yes, said Grandma,
back in Austria anyone wearing
a star was called a beast. But you
know what?
I looked cautiously
at my grandma
and raised my eyebrows.
The ones with the thickest horns
are the ones that are most
likely to survive.
I glanced up at my
grandmother,
a 92-year old Holocaust
survivor, and suddenly my
eyes became heavy
and closed.
That night I dreamt about
winning. About standing on
a first place podium
holding a golden trophy,
with passion in my eyes.
when we broke up
I walk to my room and practically fall onto the bed. A million tiny shards of glass pierce my heart, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent myself from screaming in pain. So I do; and when it’s over my hand is covered in blood and I’m holding a razor blade, not knowing how it got between my fingertips. The blood trickles onto the floor and I bend down to the ground. With the blood as my ink I use my finger to write the word that best describes heartbreak on the floor: her.
The thing you should know about me is that my smile is genuine. I don’t smile when there are tears welling up in the back of my eyes, or when I’m sad or mad; these kinds of emotions I feel. My smile is not forced or contrived. If you see me smiling, know that it’s because I truly mean to show pleasure on my face.
My exterior is a mirror for my soul.
Grey
Everything was grey. The floor, the walls, the people whose color had been drained from their faces. The whole situation lived in grey space, somewhere between the black and the white. It would have been simpler if the situation was another color; perhaps purple—a simple, pretty color. But while the outcome was uncertain, grey served as the color of the imprint on my mind.