o, tenenbaum

she once told me that she thought therapy was useless because every therapist she ever got was fat and that, to her, was a sign of undeniable weakness. if you can't stop yourself from stuffing your face until you've become your own health hazard, how can you stop me from destroying my life? so she quit going. because, in a size four, she was more together.
in a size five, i'm not together. he came over last night with the scruff he knows i've always loved blossoming for my benefit on his cheeks. the two years apart have made him attractive; i never wanted him when i didn't notice that he wanted me, when i thought the bottle of wine was sheer kindness. both married, he now intrigues me. and the first thing he said was that he'd never seen me so thin. by her standards, i'm more together than ever.
the reasons she won't work for me have nothing to do with her weight, but they may be just as superficial. she won't work for me because her office is immaculate, hair like a bleachedout helmet, foundation puttied into every crease. because she hangs my coat up so particularly and hems until i go crazy. she needs to not be shocked if this is ever to work.
so, i guess i want him to work with me. he seems rather absorbent. and i need to wash my hands of her, drip dry elsewhere.
she writes epics that make my brain spin. the meaning dances, shrouded behind the words, and the glimpses i get leave me guessing long beyond reply. sometimes, i think she hates me. sometimes, i think she likes me. i'm not sure. i'm not sure she's sure.
she could be my therapist. she forces me to work. no bones about it, she drags out my innards and flings them on the table, nevermind the bloody shit spatterings speckling my face, caking my hair. then she hands me a spoon and expects me to chew slowly through the mess, to find the heart of the sapling that she knows was planted deep inside, fertilized so long, so well.
the sapling: i told her mine was more like the cherry outside my window that i worshipped when we first moved in, the one that, now barren, has shown me its wounds, its rottings, how close to tipping it is. the warmer seasons disguised it well. and i dress mine up in luscious pink blossoms the same. see how pretty it is?
it's only when you filter out the flowers that you see oh fuck it's gonna fall.
so, a blueprint for my life: a way to nourish this sad little tree until it becomes the magnificent oak it needs to be, and a rubbing of the leaves it will drop along the way, the sturdy bark with which it will encase, support, protect itself:
step one: fling out a root or so, drive them deep; no use reaching skyward without a sturdy anchor, insurance that the result with stay grounded.