I never feel that I am productive.
Not productive enough.
Change the world somehow, everyday.
Those are my standards and I have never met them.
So I have to sit with myself every night.
Feeling disappointment and self loathing.
"You didn't do anything great today,"
a voice taunts me.
"Why are you even here if you don't contribute."
But what is contribution really?
Can't it be small?
It has to be small because I can't make it big.
I have to learn to appreciate my small self.
If I make someone smile,
if I write a poem,
if I walk the dogs,
why can't those things count?
I have to learn to count them
because they are all I have.
I can't be great but I can be good in small ways
and who knows, maybe they will add up to great someday.

My days are made of moments.
My years are made of days.

******* food
It consumes me because I don't consume it
I'm so tired of the disorder
I've exhausted all the words around it
All these revolving door conversations
I have to eat my way out of this
That's the only way the topic will change
I have to eat to change my relationships
I can't wait for the day
That the topic changes

Daily I make the decisions.
Do I eat or do I restrict?
Restrict, a word added to my vocabulary by treatment.
I never thought of it as restriction.
In that context, it implies choice.
The choice baffles me.
We need food like we need air, a friend once said.
I'd never deprive anything the way I deprive myself.
Yet it is in deprivation I feel the most secure.

I want to find my voice
So I can talk to him
With relevant words
That convey my truest feelings
Then I want to be embraced
As a congratulations
For this indescribably difficult task

"Anyone can be happy at anytime."
My father's words.
To his suffering child.
Anyone, Dad?

The coming down of the day
The descent to rest
Time to be close
Couches and shows
And close bodies
Processing your day
With the one you love
Taking refuge