Love is all I have.

I am not rich. I do not know how to do much of anything important. I have two worthless degrees and have spent the better part of ten years attempting to rid my life of something that isn’t even human (sugar). I am controlled by an object. By something that can’t love me, can’t talk to me, can’t even argue with me or keep me terrorized.

All I have is love.

And even that–my relationship with is tenuous at best.

—

A memory:

A group of kids, including my best friend, wrote a “love letter” to me and put in my desk. I found it, and read it, then put it back in my desk. It said something along the lines of:

Dear BFP,
I love you so much, but before I can tell you who I am, you need to fix yourself. Take a shower. Wear a dress every once in a while.

I love you,
Your secret admirer.

Later that day, walking home from school with my best friend, I told her about it. I knew it was a fake right off the bat, and tried to figure out with her who wrote it. She, feeling guilty, told me what had happened, how a bunch of the other students had done this. And she hadn’t known what to do. BUt now she was telling me.

I felt good that I hadn’t been tricked. That I hadn’t been stupid and exposed myself. Been vulnerable. Then they would’ve really had me. THen it would’ve escalated to places I didn’t like to even think about.

I was glad I knew better than to believe anybody in the world could love me.

Me.
Me?

Love is trick people use against you. A way to control you. A way to win.

And it’s all I have.

—

I gave up sugar. Been working on it since solstice. When I vowed I would let go of the hate of my body–and prepare myself for the second half of my life. The battle.

Slowly, every single day, I have paid attention to my thoughts, my emotions, when I eat a candy bar, a peice of cake. a whole quart of ice cream.

I have been preparing for the last ten years to have this confrontation.

Up until this point, it has been less than a battle. More like some serious eyeballing each other. A few thrusts of the weapons to see how it all works, and what it feels like.

And then last night, it happened. I saw my world. My life. And I knew the show down had to happen. And it might as well be now.

The truth: I am controlled by fear. An object that *can* talk. That can use words in the most terrifying ways. That knows how to never shut the fuck up. That knows every secret passageway into your heart. That knows how to eat courage and love until the only thing left of your heart is a burnt carcass.

Sugar helps me to deal with the whispering.

Love is the only thing I have. And it’s a trick. A trick being used against me.

—

The effects of sugar are real. I’ve tried getting off of sugar, or even limiting the amount of sugar I eat for many many years–and I’ve had everything from severe headaches to excruciating depression to bloating happen.

The effects of addiction are real. I’ve dug around in the couch for money to buy sugar. I’ve set money aside that we don’t have so I can be sure to have enough candy bars to last until the next pay check. I’ve gotten nervous thinking that there’s no sugar in the house and have stayed up late at night baking cookies because we had no money to get something from the local gas station.

But…even as it is all real–it starts with the whispering. With the memories:

I ran and nobody came. Nobody chased me. Other friends ran, and every single one of their families chased them. Mine said: You’re an adult now. See you around.

And I knew that was what was going to happen. I’d been told since I was a small kid by parents aiming to toughen me up. I knew. Love tricks you. And is used against you. To hurt and control. Only this time… I had let my defenses down. I had been vulnerable. I had let them see. Me.

And they won.

—

Last night–It all came up in my face. I got hit with the worst. The whispering shifted from snakelike twisting through dark holes I had buried deep to reality: I am here. There is nothing but love. And I have no fucking idea if it can be trusted.

A memory:

A boy who beat me regularly was the one who confirmed what I had suspected but had been told “was a dream.” Slipping underneath the bushes that day with a different boy (older. stronger. smarter.) *had* resulted in what I thought it had.

“I don’t think you’re a virgin, bfp.”
“I don’t think I am either.”

A boy who beat me regularly was the only one who loved me enough to say it out loud.

Love fucks with you. Hard.

—

I have no idea if I have beaten this sugar thing. I cried for hours last night. This time, I refused to walk away from the pain.

Unlovable me.
Unlovely me.
Inherently unlovable fucked up me.
Not because I’m Chicana. Not because I’m poor. Not because I’m ugly or fat or old or queer or a rapable miserable nasty old girl.

Just because I am me.

Me.
Me?

It’s all I have.

I recognized as I wandered around the house last night–the tears dried up. The body aching and sore. The face swollen.

That wandering time is usually time spent looking for candy. For lemonheads. For brownies. For cookies. Ice cream.

I told W*–I feel empty. There is nothing there. I want to be filled up, and I don’t know how to do that. Unspoken: in a way that doesn’t hurt. That prepares me for the rest of my life. That honors me and helps me to be my best me.

Radical love.

A belief, somewhere deep–safe from even the swirling whispers–

Until I am ready–
it will be waiting.
Until I am ready, be as gentle with myself as I know how.

I ate a few spoonfuls of beans and rice. And then fell asleep on the couch.

Love. Radical. It’s all I have.