Asana, Body Image, character study, Death, depression, Dharma, eccentric, Existentialism, Expansion, Fear, Health Issues, Laramie, Mental Health, Mindfulness, mountains, poverty, privilage, PTSD, Self Growth, Self Love, Self Reflection, Sex, Suicide, Universiality

the uncut hair of graves

I keep the phone squished between my shoulder and ear driving to Corona Village to pick up fajitas I had ordered before my dear friend called.  She is dead now.  She hung herself.  I wish I could say I don’t picture her body there hanging, owl tattoo on her right shoulder.  Hair blonde, maybe more brown, jutty cut she had surely given herself to frame her beautiful thinned out almond crystal eyes.  We talk about so many things on the phone.  She hears my voice for who I really am. She sees me for me.

We talk about how she will move to South Carolina soon and I watch the brightly colored tiles that decorate the walls of the restaurant nd wish she were back in Wyoming.  Phone sill squished, I drive home to eat my meal.  To talk to my friend.  To heal my soul.  I dip a chip into guacamole and taste the tiny individual pieces of salt visible on the triangles and she tells me when she admired me for talking about performing oral sex in our English capstone class.  Tells me I used the phrase “sucking dick” and that had liberated her.  I remember that self that wouldn’t wear a belt or a bra and talk frankly of sex in class because I wanted so bad to accept my body and to accept sex and to be a part of something that carries so much power.

My mind flashes back to a care package she had left at my house and I watch as a drop of runny salsa hits the floor and puddles out while I remember what was in the box.  Corsets, bras, whips, and other kinky shit she felt safe enough to give me.  I look at the spot of salsa and smile about how she thought I was something more than I think I am.  In her eyes, to her short choppy hair, I was a sex vixen.  I crouch down and wipe up the blood like salsa with a napkin and shove it back in the takeout bag.

Pushing carrots, celery, and mushrooms around in the foam container soaked in grease and dark red sauce made of chilies and cumin she tells me about how she had to cancel her Facebook account for slugging too much wine in the evenings and writing provocative shit.  That wasn’t her or mine assessments but her graduate program that had broken her down like I had been broken down in my own program.  I drop a tiny spoonful of sour cream onto beans and put them into my mouth while tears start to fall down.  She gets me.  She sees my spark and I see hers and we want to drink wine and perform oral sex on whomever or wherever we feel like.

I’ve wrapped my tortillas in foil and slopped the food from foam into plastic containers.  Organize. Compartmentalize. Anything to give myself the illusion of control.  We get ready to end the phone call and I tell her to keep pushing forward, to give her writing to the world, and I tell her I’ve saved all of her writing.  Even her e-mails.  Nothing can happen more beautiful than death for the awareness of life it gives to all who suffer its consequences.

Hey jenn,
Im getting that piece to you sunday night hell or high water.  I found this article about throwing around words to look learned n after our talky talky bout the mfa boys club n tim like people i thought u might like it too:
Im usin my phone so pardon all the grammar bad ju ju

J. P. Corley

Asana, Body Image, character study, Christmas, depression, Dharma, eccentric, Existentialism, Expansion, Health Issues, Higher Education, Mental Health, Mindfulness, mountains, privilage, Self Growth, Self Love, Self Reflection, Trailrunning, Universiality, Wyoming, Yoga

big gulp breath

I’ve started to do things I like because I like myself more and more each day. I run–not lose a billion million calories but because I love feeling the sun on my skin midday. I don’t worry about walking either and stop to gulp breath like diet soda which I also drink because I like the way it feels and tastes.

I love my job. I don’t try too hard because I don’t have to. Part of the love is that I can just be myself. I do yoga with weights because I favor strength over flexibility and I like the way my arms are starting to take shape again.

I go out every now and again and hang out with the people I choose. Ones who I can be my complete and utter self around—no matter how that self may feel. I still get defensive and worry about others approval but I like that I’m working on that too.

I listen to all kinds of music because I can. I don’t care if there are cuss words in a class. I listen to what moves me. The word fuck sometimes moves. I don’t go to live shows as much as I used to. I’m okay with that, too.

I love teaching yoga because its more about being with people than alignment. Its more about being humble together than showing off a handstand. Its more about loving yourself than loving the illusion in the mirror. Its more about seeing your true self, rather than what the world has tried to create.

The moment you over think how someone sees you, is the moment you stopped being true to yourself.

depression, poverty, privilage, Self Love, Self Reflection

sad, lonely, desperate, alive

I find myself at the grocery on the phone with my sister asking her which laxative I should buy. Behind me are the giggles of two college students buying lube and condoms. A straight couple, of child bearing age—no worries if it be known that they have sex. Myself, coming up on 31, single, white, female, middle socio-economic status. Does this make is predictable and okay that I have an eating disorder? After the buffet, I search the internet and minutes later am swallowing tablespoons of pink salt and warm water and feel so relieved to finally be rid of something because I can’t rid myself of self-hatred just yet. I can’t help but internalize my inability to get a job that gives me meaning, find a relationship that gives me goosebumps, love my body no matter what size. It has been years now that I’ve been purging, a little dirty habit that I find solace in on Netflix as I watch documentaries of other young women. As I write I wonder if I need to hide this too—I’m a role model, I’m a helper. No one needs to know. They might think less of you. But I can’t take the giant hole anymore. I’ve gained 20 pounds this summer forgetting the feeling of hunger letting all my work (and I call this starvation–this binge exercise, body numbing, mind fucking, soul sucking–work) go because I wonder if it was ill begotten in the first place. Look to the past, two years ago, running up to ten miles a day tears plopping down on a treadmill belt rotating in time, if only I hadn’t been so fat he would have loved me, he wouldn’t have left me. We all tell ourselves lies and some are more acceptable than others. I relied so heavily on the size of my body for a steady state—my mind too volatile, my soul pulled like waves by the sun and moon, and now I feel cheated by my own body. I cannot trust anyone, anything, I cannot trust that I won’t fail. And I cannot trust that I will stop seeing this as failure.  I will not sum it all up and give a false conclusion but sometimes trust must turn into faith–a belief in something I can’t see, a belief that I will be okay.  A belief that I am okay.  Right now.  Right here.

*Disclaimer: laxatives are extremely dangerous and this blogger did not use this addictive measure and is currently in therapy for eating disorders and body image…please see this as a plea for us all to get the help we deserve