10/24/08

OK, I’ve been lusting after this dress for 2 months now. I’m going to get it. HOTNESS

It costs way more than I normally would pay for a dress but I look fantastic in it and I deserve it! This particular shade of purple is so vibrant it brightens my skin tone and it’s perfect for the upcoming office holiday party. I love the way it clings to all my curves. I feel like a sex goddess in it.

If the very attractive new Comptroller assistant notices - well, I won’t mind.

I’ll just have to eat out less - for six months or so!

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10/25/08

They created Caller I.D. for a reason. One of these days, I’ll learn to use it and love it. My phone rings and I thoughtlessly pick it up. It’s my dear mother calling to see how I’m doing. Specifically, if I’ve lost any weight this month.

I haven’t.

Of course, I also haven’t been trying either. I haven’t tried in years. We’ve had this discussion before (my whole life, in fact). I refuse to dance with her this time around. I tell her I am exercising regularly and eating well and I hope she’s doing the same.

Mother reels off the various ailments facings me - diabetes, high blood pressure - but I know what’s really bothering her. I don’t look the way she wants me to look. I’m not cute and little - the way she was in high school. The way she wants to look now.

As my mother drones on in my ear about the latest diet she’s trying - lemons and hot sauce in water? I walk over to my mirror and study my reflection. As I focus on my image my mother becomes background noise. In the mirror, I trace my high cheek bones and then my collar bone before outlining my breasts. I smile as I outline the dip in my waist.

“Mom,” I interrupt. “I’ve gotta go. I’m going out with friends tonight and I don’t want to be late. Good luck on your diet.”

I realized I can’t change her anymore than I’m going to let her change me back into the insecure little girl I was.

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10/26/08

When it rains, it pours. Some days I feels that I will perpetually be reliving the life of that insecure, vulnerable, fat girl.
As if the phone call from my mother yesterday wasn’t enough. My creepy neighbor from down the hall is at it again. He’s old enough to be my father and he won’t stop leering at me. At first, I thought he was being neighborly by speaking, leaving Christmas cards and inquiring about my job.

But lately, I’ve caught him watching me as I walk down the hallway or waiting to watch me I should say. It freaks me out. It reminds me of the older guys who used to constantly try and grope my breasts or make comments about my body even when I was just a kid.

I just duck my head and rush into my apartment. I can’t help it. It makes me want to hide. After a long shower. And I didn’t even do anything!

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11/3/08

Hmmm, I think the Comptroller Assistant - his name is Robert - might be interested in me. Funny, I didn’t mind him looking at me as I walked away.

It’s not that I don’t get asked out it’s that I’m rarely interested. But Robert wanted to make sure I was going to the Holiday party for Administration and asked if I was bringing my boyfriend.

Well, that was a rather obvious clue, right? I couldn’t miss that. Just in case I called my aunt to run it past her. She agreed it was obvious and then said, “It’s no surprise though. Your gorgeous. Why wouldn’t he be interested?”

Without thinking I asked, “Am I gorgeous even though I’m not normal?”

She had no idea what I meant. It dawned on me then that perhaps I hadn’t let as much of the past go as I thought I had. I was still carrying around toss-off comments that she’d made 14 years ago.

How does one learn to move on?

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11/5/08

My life is going well. But lately I cant help but think about the past. Just little things seem to be bringing up memories.

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I had someone care for me like I needed to be cared for when I was struggling with my body issues as a kid. I feel as though Jessie is still here somewhere inside of me asking for help.

Somehow I have to find a way to reach out to her. It might be the only way Jessica can move on.