Waiting on the bed in an unfamiliar room, clothes draped on the chair, I thought again about the decision that had brought me here. It was so unlike me (or the me of recent years) to do this, had I made a mistake? Did I give in too easily to the suggestion? Perhaps I should have waited longer, tried to find another way to ease the hurt. Could a strangers hands really give me release from this pain I carried with me? Well, I had paid for an hour, no sense in wasting the money without sampling the goods. Their touch is part pleasure, part pain, but I endure it because sometimes you just have to resort to a remedial massage to fix your neck!
I’ve been enjoying reading the Haiku poetry that Hugh has been writing these last few weeks, so I thought I might give it a go.
So off I went to discover from whence his inspiration came.
unheard a last breath rises
a two edged blessing
So yes, I’m size 20 – an incontrovertible fact
I’m way past cuddly and curvy, so let’s just call me fat.
“She must be greedy and lazy, to let herself get to that size”
they speak without understanding, one day they may realise.
It’s so much more than just eating – this chaos that lives in my brain
compounded of joyful memories, and bottomless buckets of pain.
The food is only a symptom of things I cannot control
for though I am shattered and broken, once I was boundlessly whole.
I know it is not the real answer, to things that go “bump in the night”
but just for those few tiny moments, food makes some of it right.
I’ve searched for other solutions, but to food I keep coming back
so look deeper than just my surface – my pain is displayed in my fat.
This question is brought to you courtesy of my youngest daughter who, whilst I was blithely slicing a cucumber for a salad, remarked that did I know that they feel pain (having a cucumber version of a “nervous system”).
At least I could not hear it screaming (being as I am an older person who has lost that part of the hearing range), but it did raise the question: