My Novels

The Bumblebee Project – Click here: Synopsis

The Bumblebee Project is very dear to my heart. Like millions of other girls and women, I also struggled with eating disorders in my younger years. Along the way, I lost a close friend and several acquaintances who died due to complications of their eating disorders. I knew if I ever found a way out, my first priority would be to help in any way that I could. My writing on this subject is my way of reaching as many sufferers as possible.  

Recovery from eating disorders is a long, hard process, oftentimes with permanent damage sustained along the way. Somehow, I was lucky to have lost only time and opportunities. As I celebrate my eighth year in recovery, my greatest wish is for The Bumblebee Project to offer a hand up to those still struggling. Through the main character’s hopeful and emotional journey, I hope to shine a light into the miserable darkness known as an eating disorder and prove to others that recovery IS possible. 

Five to ten million people in the United States alone suffer from eating disorders. Perhaps you, your sister, your mother, your wife, your daughter, your neighbor, struggles too. Every journey to recovery is different, just as every sufferer is different. It may take years, tears, anger and hard work, but you will grow stronger and wiser in the process. Just don’t quit before the miracle.

 

The Girl Next Door Series:

Brave New Girl

My second novel, Brave New Girl, is a young adult novel written during NaNoWriMo 2008. Not only was it fun to write, but I’m very excited about the storyline and all the twists and turns it promises.

You can read the first chapter of Brave New Girl here: 

Click here: Chapter One

 

 Below is an excerpt from The Bumblebee Project (on Planet Anorexia).

 “According to 20th century folklore, the laws of aerodynamics prove that the bumblebee should be incapable of flight, as it does not have the capacity (in terms of wing size or beat per second) to achieve flight with the degree of wing loading necessary, and yet, not being aware of scientists proving it cannot fly, the bumblebee succeeds. The origin of this myth has been difficult to pin down with any certainty: John McMasters recounted an anecdote about an unnamed Swiss aerodynamicist at a dinner party who performed some rough calculations and concluded, presumably in jest, that according to the equations, bumblebees cannot fly. However, in later years, McMasters has backed away from this origin, suggesting that there could be multiple sources, and that the earliest he has found was a reference in the 1934 French book Le vol des insectes by M. Magnan. Magnan is reported to have written that he and a Mr. Saint-Lague had applied the equations of air resistance to insects and found that their flight was impossible, but that “One shouldn’t be surprised that the results of the calculations don’t square with reality”.”

Wikipedia

   

 … Of course, Frankie was long resigned to having an eating disorder; the newness and surprise had worn off long ago. It was commonplace, now, like having ten fingers and ten toes. She felt powerful and successful as she did what so many people couldn’t. Half the world was trying to lose weight and most failed. But not Frankie.

 

     A thin body is praised and valued by society. You can come from any family or background and get your foot in the door if you’re thin. If you’re thin and beautiful, you can make it to the top — then, the sky’s the limit.

 

     There are so many messages out there and we pick them up so young. Oddly enough in this unpredictable world, the messages seem to hold true. Pretty people are paid more. Thin people get more respect. I might be used to being uncomfortably thin, but at the same time, women are supposed to be thin. If you’re not naturally thin, are you just supposed to retire to life’s corner and become a second class citizen?   

 

     There were other benefits, too. Frankie couldn’t explain it, but Anorexia opened up a  private place that promised a reprieve. When she starved she felt emotionally untouchable, with a heart of steel and the thickest skin. There wasn‘t risk of being forced into anything; safe and strong, she could take her time and live life at her own pace. It was simple, really. Maybe harder to comprehend by those who’d never taken desperate or addictive measures, but simple nonetheless: she was trying to find a quiet, peaceful place.

 

     Then why do I feel so ashamed? Why do I feel like a loser and a mental case? I think I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want to keep doing what I’m doing, but without the psychiatric label and the judgments associated with it. Without it being an illness.         

 

     At their next therapy session, Doctor X gave his own interpretation.

 

     “I think little Frankie needed to shrink her complicated life down to a manageable size. Starving was all she could do at the time, and now she’s stuck in it. It’s a metaphorical maneuver, but it worked to calm her down; it gave her a sense of control over the uncontrollable. Most simply, it was her way of fighting back. Little Frankie was a fighter — not some weak nobody. What do you think?”

 

     Frankie was quiet, thinking it over. It was true that when she starved, she did feel calmer. The endorphins kicked in, an enabler in itself. Burying all those hard, old emotions made life more bearable. The constant experience of hunger and fatigue (without giving in to either) pushed everything else from her mind.

 

     “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

     Frankie didn’t want to think about little Frankie.

 

     “The starving body is solely concerned with finding food, rigged by evolution to go into five alarm at an assault on its survival. That’s why it’s so hard to be doing what you’re doing, Frankie. That’s why you feel so terrible. Aren’t you just exchanging one kind of terrible for another? Doesn’t that seem like a waste of time?” 

 

     Overriding the hunger instinct gave Frankie a feeling of power large enough to push her childhood reality and all the hurt out of awareness. Actually, that was the point. So it was everything but a waste of time.

 

     “I think little Frankie narrowed life down to its bare essentials: life and death, the absolute questions. Only, her methods brought no answers. In that sense, the Anorexia is sadly ironic, isn‘t it? I think it‘s more painful than the feelings and events you work so hard to avoid. Maybe the truth is really about being whole, happy and healthy. What do you think?”

 

     “Why do you keep asking me that?”

 

     “What you think? Because it’s important.”   

 

     No, it’s not. He doesn’t get it — I’m supposed to be a liar, a drama queen, a manipulator, according to my parents. I make things up and I blow things out of proportion. I have a few screws missing. None of what I experienced actually happened. Although I should know better because I was there, I do feel silenced and horribly ashamed, as if their efforts to avoid responsibility aren’t artful dodges around reality, but the truth. I blame myself, just like them. I try not to, but I can’t help it. It even happens beyond my awareness of it happening. It’s like I’ve joined ranks with them and I can’t stop; I don’t know how to undo it.

 

     Sometimes I think the stress of the abuse froze me in time, like I’m still that depressed and quietly seething child so damn sick of not getting what I needed, and at the same time, I wasn’t supposed to be needing anything, anyway.

 

     However, if they say it’s so, it’s so. If my parents say it was all acceptable, then it was. And everyone else will agree with them. I’m marked as unbalanced for eternity, because of the Anorexia. Me, the crazy, deceitful daughter instead of the abused girl who could really see, and maybe that’s why. Maybe it was easier to join in the denial and be a part of the (façade of) family. It’s easier to be wrong when there’s so much at stake and so much to lose if you‘re right.  

 

     “My mother once said to me, Frankie, don’t think we’ll go into debt for you or mortgage the house just to pay for your treatment. I was 12 years old at the time and completely miserable — and she meant it, too. But she also said it to hurt me. Essentially, she was saying they’d let me die if this illness was going to cost them money. I mean, how else could that statement be interpreted?”

 

     “That’s horrible, Frankie, and so wrong on every level. If you’d been my daughter I would have gotten you into treatment immediately.”

 

     Frankie stared at the carpet, swinging her legs back and forth until she realized that‘s what kids do, so she stopped. She wasn’t his daughter. Nor was she the daughter of the other parents who would’ve done the same as Doctor Xavier. Who knows how her life would’ve changed if she were.

 

     “In that moment, I saw her not as my mother but as a woman, an individual person. It was a person I never would’ve chosen in my wildest dreams to have a relationship with, and yet she was my mother. That’s when I knew I was on my own. It was a big revelation for a kid to have. I guess it was always true, but in that moment, I knew.”     

 

     “Where was your mother when your father was hitting you?” When you asked me that in our first session, Doc, I couldn’t answer you. That part of me is frozen solid like a winter lake in Minnesota. I can’t live through the pain of remembering it, I’m sure of it. It’s all the stuff they shrug off and invalidate anyway, really believing that none of it happened. Even though they were there, you know?

 

     It’s really messed up. I’m afraid you might not believe me either, and that you might side with them. I don’t want to be the wrong one, again.     

 

     Careful not to startle her, the doctor wheeled his chair in closer. “Frankie, if there are things bothering you, and obviously there are, why not work them out? You can be bothered and do nothing, or you can be bothered and work it out. Maybe even work it out completely. At least the latter insures there’ll be an end to it someday.”

 

     “How do you know these things can be worked out, Doctor Xavier? Because you‘re a psychologist? If you’ve never been abused, how do you know? It’s easy for you to say it, sure. But can it really be done?”

 

     “I can say it, Frankie, because others have done it before you. At the least, it means it’s  possible. You’re very bright, and you’re tough. I think you can handle it. I believe you have the strength of mind to face your past and come out victorious. You just need to stop separating yourself from the help that’s yours for the taking. You‘re just as deserving as the rest of us. ”

 

     “What do you mean by that?”

 

     “I mean everyone gets hurt in life, Frankie. Everyone gets disappointed at one time or another by something someone does or doesn’t do. Maybe not on the scale you‘ve experienced it, but the point is, you‘re not alone. You‘re not the only one. Child abuse runs rampant in our society. It shouldn‘t happen, but it does.”

 

     “I don’t see how you can be so sure of what I am or am not capable of.”

 

     “I know you’re capable of a life without starvation. You know how I know? Because the anorexic state is unnatural. It’s not the way you were born, Frankie. Anorexia is a crutch.” 

    

     C’mon, Doc. It’s not like I’m murdering anyone. I’m not drinking or doing drugs or bothering anyone. So why can’t I just be left alone? Really, why can’t I? No one gets it — Anorexia is the only thing in my life that I’ve gotten right. It’s the only thing that makes me feel better in this crazy, imperfect world. Everyone has crutches of one sort or another; the list is endless. Cigarettes, alcohol, bubble baths, chocolate, sex, cigars, drugs, other people, lucky socks, favorite chairs, women’s magazines, clothes, shoes, jewelry, pets, and so on. Why can’t I just do what I need to do? Everyone else does.  

 

     “But Anorexia works.”

 

     “No it doesn’t, Frankie. It’s an illusion. If it worked, your actions would have positive, life-affirming results. I only have to see you sitting there to know that’s not the case. You’re suffering; it‘s obvious. So is the fact that you‘re afraid.”

       

     She was afraid. Terrified. Fears come true more often than dreams, and Frankie was a slave to her fear. She could rationalize it backwards and sideways and upside down, but no amount of rationalization (which anorectics are good at, they have to be) could change the underlying truth: life wasn‘t meant to be controlled through starvation. It could never be an authentic or permanent fix. Life wasn’t meant to be controlled, period, although the attempt was mistakenly human. And understandable, really, because control brought comfort and relief. 

 

     Crutches didn’t make a person smarter or stronger, either. Plus, even with her crutch, some truths refused to be starved away; some pain was immune to tricks. The Doc believed there was no freedom in controlling the uncontrollable, just the illusion of freedom, and illusions weren’t enough for anyone — some could actually do damage. She was aching to believe him.

 

     “Anorexia is a mind hog, Frankie. It’s a dangerous distraction from the real issues. How can you make a difference in the world if you’re starving?”   

 

     Frankie didn’t know what to say. It wasn‘t her place to change the world, anyway. She was talentless. Useless. 

 

     They sat in silence for the last ten minutes of therapy. Doctor Xavier wheeled his chair back to his desk, propping his feet up on the edge and seeming quite comfortable in the silence. For Frankie, it was excruciating. When it was finally time to leave, she raised her eyes briefly to say goodbye, trying not to look like she was rushing out the door, but she was. She couldn’t get out of the building fast enough.

 

     That evening, as she walked the dogs and fed the horses, she thought over what the Doctor had said. He hadn’t scolded her, nor had he been frustrated or inpatient with her like so many before him. He wasn’t angry with her, either.

 

     Like Christopher. Christopher had always been angry.     

 

     “Frankie? What are you doing?”

 

     “Eating. What does it look like?”

 

     “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

     “C’mon, Christopher, you said you’d lay off if I ate, and I’m eating.”  

 

     “Jesus Christ, Frankie, that’s not eating. That’s pantomime! Two tablespoons of fat-free yogurt and ten cheerios isn’t eating! Are you insane, or do you really believe that‘s a meal?”

 

     “For your information, it’s sixteen cheerios, Christopher. I know it’s not good enough, but I’m trying. That has to count for something! And, you know, it feels like you’re making fun of me when all that matters is that I’m eating, right? I said I’d eat and I’m eating, so give me a break!”

 

     Frankie stared fiercely at the little red roses on the tablecloth, fighting the threat of tears with all her might. She was so angry it scared her.

 

     “You’re fooling yourself, Frankie! A bird couldn’t live on a meal like that. You can’t possibly believe such a small amount of food is adequate. You’d have to be delusional, you know that? Delusional! Maybe you are! I just don‘t know what to do anymore!”

 

     “So, what, Chris? You think insulting me helps? You think making me feel about as big as a cheerio helps?”

 

     “Who knows? Nothing else does. I just don’t get you, Frankie. Do you know how many girls would die to look like you, or even to BE you? Don’t you know that? You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’ve got an amazing body when you aren‘t messing with it. You‘re sweet. Everyone likes you. Why can’t you be satisfied with that? Why isn’t that enough?

 

     Frankie glared at him with all the fury of the chronically misunderstood.

 

     “Why can’t you just take better care of yourself?”

 

     “Why can’t YOU have more compassion? I’m eating, Chris. I‘m eating, so back off!”

 

     Christopher rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. It just made her angrier. He sighed in defeat.

 

     “Right, you‘re eating. Sure you are — but the truth is, you‘re not. Not enough, anyway, and I don’t know what to do, Frankie. We can‘t go on like this — this isn‘t even a marriage anymore. We barely talk to each other, you’re always off in your own little world. You scare me, Frankie. Plain and simple, you scare me to death.”

 

     “So this is all about you, again? Will it ever be about me? You know I’m not doing this on purpose, Chris. You know that.”

 

     “I don’t know how you can do this to yourself at all, Frankie! You look awful! People stare at you wherever you go — don‘t tell me you don’t notice. Is there anything that’ll get through to you? Wasn’t fainting yesterday a wake up call?”

  

     Years later, one fat divorce later, Frankie was still waiting for her wake up call. The phone line was open most days, so she wouldn’t miss it if it came. It wasn’t like there were lots of people in her life to tie up the line. And while she waited for that special moment, that inner shift that changed everything, life went on. Frankie went on. She just did. 

 

     You have to look at life objectively, whenever you can. For example, there are disasters in store for everyone, right? No one is immune. There are disasters other people endure that would be unbearable for me — I’m lucky those disasters aren’t my disasters. Therefore, in that light, I’m lucky for the Anorexia. Things could be worse.

 

     See, Dr. X? It could be worse.        

 

     There was a cut on her head, an inch past her hairline, hidden by her long, dark hair. She’d lost her balance that morning, striking her head on the pointy corner of the coffee table. It wasn’t quite fainting, but it was close; Doctor Xavier would attribute the dizziness to the Anorexia and say her blood pressure was low, maybe getting more worried than she could afford, so she wouldn’t tell him. She never promised to tell him everything. 

    

     Frankie could tick off reason after reason for keeping the Anorexia. Anger and hurt shadowed all of them. She let her mind float to the place where reality ended and timeless space began, the objects around her blurring and shifting. Until she heard his familiar laugh, as irresistible as a baby‘s. It pulled her right back, like magnet to steel. He sounded yellow and warm, as if he‘d swallowed the sun.    

 

     “Look how far pizza has come since I invented it,” God shouted from the kitchen with glee. “It’s really something else. Pineapple! I never would have thought of putting pineapple on pizza!”

 

     His melodious voice flowed through the rooms like a river of light she would have loved to drown in. His presence left her feeling clean, pure and uplifted, and she was smiling for the first time that day. God was smiling, too. She could hear it and feel it.

 

     Frankie could see God just as she would a regular person, although he glowed in a way that made him look more alive than regular people. Sitting up and smoothing down her fly away hair, she felt instantly relieved and soothed. 

 

     “I thought some guy in Italy invented pizza,” she shouted back from the living room.     

 

     “It has to be invented up there, first. “ God gestured toward the ceiling with his head, but Frankie couldn’t see it. He was talking with his mouth full, pausing for a moment to chew and swallow. “You know — as above, below.” 

 

     “Ohhhh.” 

 

     God was eating the pizza James had left in the refrigerator last night, hoping to tempt her. Although it was going to take more than pizza to break the anorexic spell, Frankie appreciated James‘ efforts. The pizza would’ve only ended up in the garbage anyway, so God may as well enjoy it. He knew not to offer her a slice, and he didn’t judge her for it, either. He also couldn’t fix it — free will, and all. He counted it as one of his best inventions.

   

     “How come you’re a guy and not a girl?” Frankie’s mother would have given her a hard look, and sternly told her to get up and go where the person was, not shout through the house. “I mean, who decided that?”

 

     “Well, Frankie, I could be either. I appear to you in the form that you’re most used to.”

 

     “Do you know where Sophie is?” Sophie had been Frankie’s close friend, troubled but brilliant.

 

     “Oh no, I couldn’t be telling you that.”

 

     “Why not?”

 

     “Well, for one thing, the workings of the universe are incomprehensible for people living in this dimension. All things are revealed at the right time.”

 

     “Oh, that makes sense. But couldn’t you at least tell me if she’s okay?”

 

     Frankie waited patiently as God searched for the right words. She could hear the clock ticking off the seconds, seemingly louder than usual, or maybe the quiet was just quieter because he was there. Snowflake, asleep at her side, startled herself awake with an especially loud snore which would have been funny under different circumstances. Raking her fingers gently down the old dog’s back, Frankie’s neck and shoulders grew tense in dread and anticipation. She began to wish she hadn‘t asked the question in the first place.

 

     God cleared his throat, cleared it again, and she could hear his footsteps crossing the kitchen in squeaky shoes. He loves squeaky shoes. Standing tall in the doorway, he looked very serious. She liked it much better when he was smiling.

 

     “I don’t know what to tell you, Frankie. Suicide is hard on the soul, that’s true, but human beings are harder on themselves than any God or the universe could ever be. Let me see, how can I explain it to you better? Okay — Death is a rebirth into a higher consciousness no matter how a person gets there, but suicide can cause a spiritual disconnect that makes it harder to move on to the next level. More work must be done to complete the cycle. There’s more to it than that, but it‘s impossible to explain at this frequency.”

 

     She just had to know for sure. “I get what you’re saying, I really do, even if it‘s just that I can‘t understand most of it. But you’re not saying Sophie isn’t okay, right? I mean, she was such a good person. It wouldn’t make sense, to hold it against her. If you needed her to be stronger, you just should’ve made her that way.”

    

     She could feel his eyes on her, studying her. He looked taller when he was serious.  

 

     “Not that I would tell God what to do or anything.”

 

     Holding back a smile, he was proud of her, such an earnest mix of thoughts and emotions. “I wouldn’t worry about Sophie, Frankie. You know what Einstein says about energy, right?”

 

     “Energy can neither be created nor destroyed; it only changes form. Even if its existence is no longer obvious, the total amount of energy in the universe remains constant.”

 

     Frankie smiled, turning her head toward the window to hide it. Sophie was okay, then; he had just said as much. He just didn’t want her to think he condoned Sophie’s methods.

 

     “All I can say is, deciding to take on an earthly life is a serious matter. It’s not a game, my dear.”

 

     Making his way over to where Frankie was sitting, he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. Overflowing with kindness and spilling it all over her, for that one moment she was the golden child of a benevolent universe.  

 

     Oh, Sophie. I wish things had been different for you, here. There was nothing Frankie could do to change what had happened; she could only wish Sophie the best of luck and go back to trying to straighten out her own life.  

 

     “If I see you like I do, does that mean I’ve found religion?”

 

     “Not really, Frankie. It’s more like I found you.”

 

     “Am I crazy?”

 

     “I don’t think so.”

 

     “How do I know you’re not a figment of my imagination?”

 

     “You don’t,” he said with a grin.

 

     Frankie was quiet, thinking it over. His answers always raised more questions. She looked up and searched his eyes, looking away shyly when he held her gaze. Sometimes just looking at him brought up so many emotions, her heart felt like a balloon blown up beyond its capacity. She didn’t believe in God, yet there he was. In that way, it was crazy.   

 

     Slumping back on the couch to put a little more space between them, she stared at his shoes, so impeccably clean and shiny. A lock of hair, part of the bangs she was growing out, slid loose from her ponytail, falling across her eyes and hiding her from him. God reached over and tenderly tucked it behind her ear, as if he knew, then stood up and wandered the living room, staring at the framed photographs on the shelves and scanning the bindings of the books in the bookcase. He stopped to take in the cactus-studded view from the picture window, his eyes soft with the beauty of the desert.

 

     Frankie was worried by his comment about the importance of earthly life. Really, how much longer could she last like this? And she defended the Anorexia, to Doctor Xavier, and to herself.

 

     The occasional heartbeat knocked out of rhythm was something she’d been ignoring for over a year. Ignoring it didn’t make the danger go away, she knew. She’d never been one of those fearless anorectics playing deliberate games with her life. She was scared every day, whether or not she would admit it; the problem was, fear wasn’t enough. She wished it was, but it wasn’t.

 

     Frankie wasn’t convinced she had the strength to turn everything she knew upside down, hurt like hell, eat and not get fat and live to tell about it. She wasn’t even sure it was possible.  

 

     “Hey Frankie, do you mind if I have this last slice?” God was nosing around the kitchen, still hungry.

 

     Frankie shook her head no and then voiced it. It wasn’t like he could jump in the car and go to the pizza parlor, or, at the least, not dressed in a bathrobe with squeaky wing tips. He looks too much like, well, you know — like Him, but slightly more eccentric, and in unexpected shoes.

 

     Strolling back into the living room, God patted his stomach appreciatively. Delighted by the sweet and salty mix of mozzarella cheese and pineapple, he had room for one more “heavenly” slice.  

 

     “Thanks for the pizza, Frankie.”

 

     Before she could answer, he disappeared.

 

     Frankie was used to his abrupt departures — they were no different, really, than his abrupt arrivals. When it’s time to go, it’s time to go, especially when you‘re Him. No explanations were needed, of course, when you have the whole world in your hands.    

    

     Once again, the house was too quiet. Even Snowflake and Jeepers slept soundlessly, with the bigger dog’s body curled around the smaller dog’s, reminding her of nesting dolls.  Over an hour passed while Frankie stood at the window where God had stood, watching the wind shake the trees and spiral off into dust devils which the mustangs chased tirelessly (when they weren‘t chasing each other). She smiled to see the horses running and bucking, with an occasional kick-out to show who was boss. They were the happiest creatures, now. No horse would rather be a steak. C’mon, people. 

 

     Frankie reached up and traced the bump above her forehead with her fingertips, following the line of dried blood and wincing when she pressed too hard on what felt like a marble under her skin. Ice would shrink it, but she wanted to keep it; it was a token of all her hard work and sacrifice.

 

     Moving over to the couch, she searched for the pen she‘d left on the coffee table. She eventually found it stashed underneath, barely within finger-reach. The journal she fished from between the cushions had teeth marks on the cover and binding, and Jeepers, barely out of puppy-hood, was the most likely culprit. She really didn’t care. 

 

     Leaping onto the arm of the overstuffed chair, Scaredy-Cat repositioned her plump self on Frankie’s lap and lovingly buried her claws into Frankie’s leg. Thirty seconds later, maybe less, the cat was sound asleep. Lucky cat. The day felt so blah, so ordinary, now; she felt as empty as the horses’ water buckets by morning. If only it was as easy as turning on the hose and filling up the space.

 

     Every time God left, it seemed all the goodness in the world left with him. He was a tough act to follow. Even if he was just a hallucination or delusion, which he probably was — he had to be – still, she missed him when he left.

 

     Feeling more alone than ever, she felt a headache coming on. Like a God hangover. The dreaded silence, quieter than quiet, settled on the house like Arizona dust, coating everything.

 

     She knew what God would say, and Doctor Xavier, too, for that matter. Think of the good stuff, Frankie! Cowboy up, remember? It’s all about positive thinking. With great effort, Frankie searched her mind, having to dig deep.

 

     The good stuff. Like, the color of her brother’s baby hair, that pale yellow softness parted on the side … how different he‘d looked back then. Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, those big balloons oh-so-carefully blown up through straws and then batting them around the basement until her brother laughed those baby laughs that made her laugh. The very nice neighbor lady who’d given her Disco Barbie and ice cream on her ninth birthday — a waffle cone dipped in chocolate packed with vanilla ice cream and rainbow sprinkles. Her dog from long ago as a happy puppy, tearing in circles across the sandy backyard. The way her mother’s hands smelled of celery and onion on those dark, early mornings she’d made stuffing for the Thanksgiving bird.

 

     Here we go. This is exactly why I don’t like remembering. Those hands had been the same hands to shove Frankie away, giving hard pushes to match the eyes that seemed to say, don’t look to me for kindness; don’t look to me to fill in the empty space.

 

     Frankie both loved and hated those hands. She ached for them when they couldn’t see her, and hated them when they hurt her. She had loved them at first (as most children do) but it became harder and harder over time.

     

   They say you can’t go home again, but in my mind, all roads lead back. Twisty-turny roads, unpaved and shot full of potholes, hard to navigate and mapless and yet, I’m always going down them. I’m always finding my way back home.

 

~*~* The Bumblebee Project ~*~*  by Emily Murdoch     

 

Interested in reading my Blog on Eating Disorder Recovery? 

Click here: Ana Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.   

 

Comments? Questions? EMurdoch@wildblue.net

  

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