møll

I’m trying to get onto the 405 to get home, but all the freeway entrances seem to be blocked, construction vests and cones where there used to be open lanes. It’s not the only thing that’s changed. Old diners turn into fast food drive-thrus, Asian grocery stores turn into discount ones.

And yet I am not the same either. I am not the same girl who used to hug her mother after her father’s screams. Now a grown woman hugs her mother to be comforted from the burdens of everyday life: working, driving, networking. Why do the burdens of today seem so much less bearable than those of yesterday? My tolerance sinks as the ocean levels rise. Maybe one day our house won’t be a mile from the beach, but closer. The horror won’t be from the land lost, but at just how much everything has changed.

I still can’t seem to stop talking about you. You permeated every piece of my life.

There are so many pieces of me I cut off for so long. I didn’t want you to sour them with your touch.

But now I am relearning so many parts of myself and who I am, sweet like chewing on sugar cane, something I did before I met you. Sweet like snowfall when you grow up along the beach, something we never experienced together. Sweet like Crown Royal and Coke, something I never drank when I was with you.

I suppose I could stay bitter towards you, but I’m just so relieved you aren’t around to sour my taste anymore.

I’m waiting for a friend to arrive. A Christmas movie plays in the background, they used to be the only thing I looked forward to, that and the bake off shows. But I can’t watch them anymore; they make me nauseous. I’m filled with disgust as I watch so many foods mixed together.

I can handle burritos, they’re easy. The food that usually wraps me with disgust concealed perfectly in a flour tortilla. Anything I can squeeze out of a tube is what I mostly crave feasting on these days.

It used to be different.

I used to revel in food, it was the only thing I looked forward to all day. I still rely on old favorites, but I’m not sure if I can ever eat oatmeal again.

I was so alone.

It’s hard to be with someone 24/7 and still feel so alone and misunderstood by them.

But food didn’t fail me. Food was what I found comfort in. Food was the only thing we could talk about.
What are we having for dinner?
What should I order tonight?
What do you want from the grocery store?

The grocery store makes me sick now. Walking down the aisles feels like a suicide mission. All the brightly colored packaging like landmine warnings. This will make you feel sick.

And I do. I can’t even get through an appetizer at California Pizza Kitchen. I force myself to eat, the food inside me like the men who have forced themselves too. I assault myself on a daily basis because I have no choice; this feels familiar.

Like the sound of you laughing with your friends or the way your face looked while you were on top of me, I had to close my eyes and look away.

I’m reminded of it everyday as I drive down Melrose Blvd, disappointed by how many restaurants I will never sit at, how many restaurants we will never sit at.
Maybe this one would have fixed us.
Maybe this one will fix me.

But they wouldn’t, and they can’t. They will break me instead, just like you did.

Life isn’t a Christmas movie.

What am I walking into?

“Maybe there’s a sane, mellow guy you haven’t noticed.” Are you sane? It’s hard to believe you put up with so much abuse and came out okay on the other side. I’m walking to class and wondering if you’ll message me back.

Haven’t we done this before?

Your scent gives me a visceral reaction. This man hurt you. But that was 10 years ago. You walk into my place, I apologize for the mess. You say it feels homey. Why does a pig sty feel like home to you? Or is it just me?

What am I walking into?