Two nights ago, I tried to slice the bottom of my foot open with a pumpkin carving knife. I held the orange plastic handle tight, and pressed the ineffective blade into my skin. I didn't even draw blood.
Too bad, maybe. Maybe it would have been a way to spill out some of the badness metastisizing inside me. Without some kind of release, it leaks out in unpredictable and worrying ways. I hear echos of that badness when my little sister calls herself fat and turns down dessert. Maybe I'm self-glamorizing, casting myself as the star in a story that has nothing to do with me. I'm lost in a morass of maybes, the ranks of things I know are true are dwindling every day.
But there's this: the number on the scale. For the last eleven mornings, I've seen a subtraction. It's my totem, a reminder of the one truth I always come back to. And maybe it'll be my way out of the morass, like the string that led Thesus out of the maze. I'll spin my own yarn, using only realities, discarding whatifs past and present. I will discard all badness, all unwanted excess. My tautly-stretched strands of truth will led a distilled me to a better future.
No comments:
Post a Comment