15 March 2015

I can.

Member tweety?
And he'd be all like..."I tawt I taw a putty tat...I DIIIIIIID. I DIIIIIIID." 

Has been on my heart for a while.
And it needs to be here, to get out of me.

Picture me.
In the dermatologists office.
Working on getting back on Stelera.
Praying to the insurance Gods that they'll approve it.

When out of the blue, Dr. H says,"How much do you weigh?"
Stopping for a moment, the room stood still. 
As air left the room, I hesitated.
"230 or 240? I'm not sure," I said.

In disbelief.
I sat in his office morbidly obese.
You ugly fat girl.
 He slowly turned around in his chair.
"There is no way."
"I don't really know," I said.
Great, I thought, I must be over 250.

"There is no way you're even 200 pounds, sweetie."
"Really. Body dysmorphia?"
"I'll put 200, but I don't really think that's right."

He never made me step on scale.
And I'm proud that this May will be 2 years since I have.
It'll also be 6 months without a consistent pattern to my bulimia. It would have been a perfect 6 months, but.

I have beautiful amazing friends who have started getting their already svelt bodies ready for bikini season, and that has fu$%ed with my head, BIG TIME.

Moving on. This post is actually about my gym.
And my trainer.
He and I have spent the last year trying to find balance.
With my bulimia, my training, and my love of my self.

It hasn't always been easy.
There were times he desperately wanted to weigh me in.
Help me track my progress.
There were workouts where I'd just purged.
Or hadn't eat in...hours...days...weeks.

We hustled through them.
And it was this beautiful Sunday morning.
That we got to talking.
About what I weigh now.

And the point he was trying to make.
That I love more than anything was that he was proud of me.

"You have come in here with energy, ready to work.  You've eaten, I can tell."

I smiled through my side lunges.
"And better yet, you are always honest with me.  If it's been a bad week, it's been a bad week."
And I love that.

I chuckled to myself as I goblet squatted.
Today, I loved myself enough to eat, keep it down, and drive to the gym.

To work out enough but not too much.

I thought I saw your inner light shining.


05 January 2015


This post will inevitably be long - so before we get there.
It's about school.
And my littles.
And if that's not your thing or why you read around We Matter, come back tomorrow.

This post was almost called worry.
And I'm sorry to tell you dear blog reader, that there are a whole lotta tears dripping down my face as I write this.
Billowing out in my worry.
Desperately trying to make sense of things that don't always make sense.

Mrs Willard, my 5th grade teacher was, to this very day, the very best teacher I ever had.
She introduced me to Raffi.
And filled me with a voractious appetite for books.
She helped me fall in love with the Manatee.
And Matlida.
And Wait Til Helen Comes
She saw me.

She loved me.
Through divorce.
And abandonment issues.
And being brown and not fitting into my own skin.
That woman loved me.

No doubt, taken from her visit to my own classroom just a few years ago - she probably still does.

And truly, that's why I entered this profession.
To love children.
To teach them they matter.
And the great big world will most likely swallow them whole, but if they're lucky, they'll have a map and a book of matches.
And find their way out.

And I learned to be a great teacher from other great teachers, but I wanted to be someone's Mrs. Willard.
I wanted to love them enough to help them thrive.

Anyways, I am not paid to be their Mrs. Willlard.  In fact, in one of the saddest things I can think, she left the profession barely into her 30's.
I'm paid to improve test scores, and DIBEL, MAP, PARCC, ENVISIONS, PEARSON, and MCAS, etc.
And I do.
All the while loving them with everything I have.

It's what made this winter break so long.
Because I knew today, I'd have to go in and see who survived break.
Knowing that winter break would be a time for shuffling of all my homeless kiddos.
"Thank God," I thought this morning.
They were all back.
One through 18.

My lucky number 13.
The left part of my heart.
The ache stinging.

You know him.
The littlest guy.
My napleaon syndrome sufferer.
A smile that could light up a room of 100 watt bulbs.
Eyebrows that spoke volumes to you when he was mad.
And covered his face when he was sad.
My snack manipulator.
Vice President.
The one I'd carried out of the room in his chair the first week when he refused to leave.
The one who crawled all over the floor moo-ing and baa-ing when the space of room 115 was too much.
The one we all learned, all 19 of us, to be around when he was melting down.
The one we could ignore the mooing for because - everyone learns differently.
Who I love a little more than the others because I know he needed it.
And maybe I did too.
This summer DCF decided he could stay with his mother, and his three siblings in their hotel room.
I thought.
But really, I thought, I'd take him.
I'd take him in a heart beat.
Whose little dimples I worry about so much right now.
"There is nothing," I had said so many times, "nothing you can do could ever do to make me love you less, you know that, right."
Who never stopped grimacing about that.
That he was loved unconditionally.
Who would tell his mother I hated him.
Which was code for not really knowing how to be safe and loved.

In talking to my PIC - who is my partner in crime for a reason, I broke down tonight.
"You thought," he said, "that when he left, your worry would ease?!"
"Haha, please, you've thrust the kid you Mrs.Willard-ed into the biggest world of unknowns."
"What if his new teacher and class don't get him.  HE.  Get his humor.  See him.  What if he forgets?  What if being loved starts to disapate from his memory.  What if he goes to his next school and tells them I hated him, and they don't know that's code for loved him so much."
"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, "I think this one time where crying it

out is our best option."

And so, here I am.
Is out there.
Somewhere in the world.
Not thinking about us?
Dear God, SAFE.

I will sleep tonight on the tears of knowing that I tried.
I loved him.
Every adorable out of control part of him.
Right now, even the part that body slammed a kindergartner.
Maybe especially that fiesty part.
Number 13.
Is so so so loved.
He, #4, and #17


30 December 2014

One Word: 2015

Last year.

Defined my life.
And folks.
2014 was as free as a year could be.

I sucked a lot.
At life and sometimes even at work.
Sucked big time.
I gave myself permission to suck.
To be better next time.
To admit I totally could have done something better, and then did it better.

I called people out on their douchbaggery.
And freed myself of the ones who really don't want to grow either.

I let myself free fall.
And at times, not comfortably.
But I allowed myself to be free.
To live.

And folks.
At the end of this year.
I feel it.

To be me.
Whoever I decide that to be.

This year:
Abandon was almost the word.
To live with reckless abandon.
To abandon the people holding me down.
To abandon the beliefs that are holding me back.

To just abandon.
Live with it.

But that felt too much like free.
And ya'll.
I am living freely.
And loving every minute of it.

Drumroll, please.
2015's word:


This year, I'm going to give it.
Receive it.
Simmer in it.
Feel it.
Let it envelope me.
Let it's warmth glow around me.

I'm going to seek the love of people who have asked to give it.
And stop looking for it in places where I know I won't find it.

I have some of the greatest friends in the entire world.
This year, I'm going to ask them to love me through some hairbrained ideas.
Like getting rid of my cell phone.
And most social media - don't worry matterers, I'll still be here.

I'm going to move.
And travel.
I'm going to love every minute.



23 December 2014

I know this place

This is long
And Graphic.
And something I needed to get out of my body in a different way.
And so, if you care to not know me like this.
Skip it.

I had cried about my day for a few hours.
The pain of the morning.
Hurt of not understanding.
And feeling like I failed boiled.
And churched in me.

I had been thinking about it all day.
And the screaming match that ensued when I got home only stirred the pot.

As I twisted the lock on the bathroom door.
Turned slowly the shower handle.
I heard the faint sound of water beginning to spray from the shower head.
Which eventually mixed with the bathroom fan.
And the sink H valve that I had on high.
And in a few moments they combined to create the white noise I need to be bulemic.

I drank two warm cups of water quickly.
And stared at my reflection in the mirror.

"You're disgusting."
"Everyone hates you."
"You are SO wrong."
Little self locked herself away.
Maybe I hid her.
Spared her from witnessing this.
From the noise of adults selves who know they are right.
And I tried desperately to think of the nice things people had said throughout the day.
To shed some light on the caverns Little Self had run to.
Come back.
Be strong.
"Not EVERYONE hates you."
And then suddenly, and all at once.

The world would be better witihout you.
The world would be better without you.
The world would be better without you..

Plays unstopped
I am disgusting.
And it's true, ever so true in the moment that a lot of things including this world would be better without me.

It's then that the epic things that made up the last six months fade away and my desire for the feeling of a purge.
For the control that purging myself of all the ugly would provide.
The quick fix of not killing myself.
Which seems too extreme.
Just purging myself of these feelings.
Would bring.

Getting rid of it all.
Unfortuantely, fortunately?
I'm pretty transparent about this with everyone in my life.

So it's about this moment.
Or the one where I'm staring down.
At my two feet, almost eye level with the procelin on the throne.

That I hear him.
At the door.
For a moment.
Tears welling.
Food churning.

"Hey," he says finally through a mumble of white noise.

"Hey, I'm fine," comes out before I can even consider telling him otherwise.

There is this lapse in time.
When I think he's going.
And I breathe a little deeper.
Ready to release.
To grab the high of slowly killing myself.

And in that second.
I hear it.
The faint click of the door being unlocked by that blasted tiny whole.
That insignificant can't stop me whole.
"Hey," he repeats as the door swings open.

And I melt again.
To the floor.
Resting my forehead on the rim of the throne.
And spraying tears from the eyes.

"I'm sorry," he utters so softly I'm not sure I actually heard him.
Tears spraying, I don't stop to figure out if I did.

He squats down.
I hate the word squat.
And puts his hand on my back.
I inch away.
"Hey," he repeats.
Pulling me back.

"Just," ::spray:: "Let," ::spray::

"I'm going to.  But I'm not going."
I push as hard as I can, but I'm back in the corner.
The urge is disapating, since I won't be able to while he's here.

"You're not going to leave me, are you?"
"Who's asking?"
"Little self?  I'll be right here."
Melt into him.
Lay on the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

The purge is coming out in saline.
And I feel its cool release.

I'm not exactly sure when he stood.
My eyes were squeezed tight as the tears welled.
Or when the white noise of the sink and shower and fan dissipated, but they did.

And in a few minutes, I was asleep on the tile bathroom floor.
I awoke 20 minutes later.
WIth his hand on my back.
And the first sight as I blinked my salt crusted eyes open was his crossed arched legs.
Beside me.

"It's not just a yoga ball," I say through a gritty cried out voice.
"It never is, is it?" he chuckles.

"No," I respond, "It never is."
"You need sleep.  A lot of sleep.  You not on sleep is this."
I yawn and lean into him.

4 months binge/purge free will not be ruined by a yoga ball.
And me wanting to give everything until there is nothing left.
I can make it.


21 December 2014

On the Season.

I've wrapped so much my fingers are bleeding.
Arm knitted so much my hands are numb.
Baked so much my handes are burned.
And subjected myself to one too many nights of chanukah.

8 too much ;)

At one such a dinner, of latkes and jelly donuts.

Yeah, I went there.

I was asked, why on earth, I am buying my kiddos.
Because "back in my day, we didn't buy gifts for kids."

Well, my teachers did.
And I still have them.
But that's beside the point.

I bought gifts for my kids because:

1.) I don't know what it's like to be homeless.
2.) Or live in a hotel with 7 people.
3.) Or go hungry.
4.) Or not know if there will be enough food for everyone in your family.
5.) I've never waited for DCF to clear my foster home of abuse allegations
6.) I've never been sexually abused.
7.) My mothers did not die of a drug overdose.
8.) I don't know what it's like to have your older brother drop out of school because of drugs.
9.) I don't know what it's like to have your mom abandon you and move to Florida...er...I mean to say, I don't know what it's like at 8.
10.) I don't have a mom who is drug dealer.
11.) Or ones who don't have time to take care of me...er...now.
and because...
12.) I know what it's like to have parents who don't know what's best.
13.) I know what it's like to not be seen.
14.) And never quite feel like enough.

You ever try to stuff your entire LIFE in a 3/4 full of a trash bag?
Didn't think so.

And if some books, and socks, and box of love make my kids feel loved for a hot, fleeting second.
Well then.
I'm gonna do it.
I do not feel obligated.
Or required.

But I do feel an exceptional amount of love.
For my littles.
And I can send them home for the vacation to their hotel room houses and one bedroom apartments.
Well then.
I will.
And I will hope in my own broken heart that they feel the love we are sending them all break long.
Because I will worry about them from the end of day Tuesday until we return.