Author: Sunny

✨️ happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. ❤️‍🔥

Laughing on an old brown leather couch.

From August 2014.

One of my dad’s favorite comedians has always been Robin Williams. For as long as I can remember – I have been obsessed with my dad’s laughter.

I think it soothes me. It lets me know that in that moment everything is good. We are all safe. Whenever I have the chance to snag my dad away so we can watch a comedy or a stand-up special – I do just that. When he laughs really hard he makes a lot of movements and eventually it just all becomes one big wheezy sound. Sometimes he laughs so hard that he cries. And we spend the next few days repeating our favorite lines to each other and laughing all over again.

That smile. That laugh. Two of my favorite images in my short lifetime.

Today, we watched a Robin Williams stand-up, followed by an interview. My mother and I on one couch, my dad on the other, and my younger brother passed out on their bed. I watched beyond the images moving on the screen. I looked for small remarks made by Robin, that today, mean a hell of a lot more than they did years ago. Words showing the darkness that lived within him as much as he worked at making others happy and full of laughter.

I realize that he has left us with all of these gems to assist in our laughter for years to come. He is still here. The man that he let us know. All of the different masks that we were privy to.

I also look to the man to my right, my father, and feel the warmth of comfort deep in my belly.

Things are okay.

They could be better.

They could be worse.

But we are here together. Alive. Breathing. Laughing. Smiling. Eating. Drinking.

I make a promise to myself today to pay more attention. To the underlying message in the words spoken by those I love the most in this bittersweet moment. I will not just listen, but hear. I will not just watch, but see. I will not just say, but do. I make a promise to look beyond what they think their eyes are telling them. To see the pain. The dark. The hurt.

I also know that it has never been more clear that when my mother and father no longer inhabit this earth physically with one another but with me – that their words, their laughter, their faces, and their movements will live in

my heart,

my soul,

my mind,

my bones,

my cells.

I will always remember all of the times we laughed so hard that we cried on the scratched up, with years, brown leather couches in the living room.

–S.

Taking Up Space.

Not your usual before and after, but this journey for me is about embracing all of the things about myself that I don’t like and turning them into loves.

I wear a size 12W.

As if the 12 is not enough, my feet are also wide, probably because I live in Texas and flip-flops are life.

Everything about me just always seemed so big. If I could have somehow made myself invisible, I would have.

I never knew how to take up the space that I do. That seems like a really wierd statement when I read it back to myself, but I don’t know how else to explain it.

I just felt tall, and awkward, and big, and there. I wanted to not be as noticeable, fade into the background like a nice clock on the wall, but there I was, in all of my glory.

These ‘big’ things about myself just made me feel…not feminine. In my head, to qualify as feminine, I felt I had to be petite, and everything about me had to be small.

But there are so many of us in so many different shapes and sizes, that means that statement is just simply not true.

So, shoes were never something I fell in love with like most women. They were even worse to shop for than clothes. This made special occasions or even bowling something to dread.

I decided to revamp my shoe space – from a pile of clown shoes to an organized section of my bedroom – and I also added some fun shoes to my collection like platform sneakers, cheetah, gold, and even sequins.

I’m going to take up space in style.

Today, I’m wearing some cheetah print flats to work and the compliments have been rolling in.

My feet might be long and wide, and I won’t be able to change that – but I can still take up space with them fashionably.

They’ve taken me wherever I’ve needed to go during my 31 years on this earth.

So, they are pretty damn special and beautiful when I think about it.

I’ve also been stealing glances at my new shoe area in my room and smiling.

It feels like I’m finally starting to grow into the space that I take up and own it.

–S.

A Bowl of Pasta is just a Bowl of Pasta again.

I have such an emotional connection to pasta.

You’re probably like WTF is she even talking about, but hear me out here.

It’s the vessel that held some of my deepest secrets, darkest seasons, and periods of extreme loss and longing.

Most of us have a go-to comfort meal. For some it’s a #5 at your favorite drive-thru, or a family size bag of chips and dip, something sweet, or carby cheesy fried goodness – something that you consume in need of comforting as your own personal demons consume you.

Spaghetti. Linguine. Lasagna. Bow-Tie. Elbow.

Toss it. Top it. Layer it. Fill it. Twirl it. Swirl it.

It’s a form of immediate, but short-term relief like any other thing – spending money, alcohol, drugs, gambling, whatever vice you can think of, but once the high or the haze of it all wears off, you’re there – ashamed, with pain that is angry and raw and ready to be addressed.

And you beat it away for the moment – to be addressed at some later time, as it grows and grows and grows – sometimes into a monster that can be all-consuming.

I was miserable about how I looked because I was fat, but I was fat because I spent money, drank soda, and ate extremely unhealthy foods because I didn’t love myself.

When can I get off this roller-coaster that I’ve been on for two decades now?

And then I did.

Not slowly, not gradually, but all at once.

I ripped that safety harness off and tumbled down into the pit of my despair.

What’s the color that comes after the deepest darkest black?

That was the color of my pain, my shame, my guilt, my self-loathing, my lack of self-unforgiveness, my fury, my rage, my anger.

That is where I ran into myself – the person I had been running from all along – and I had to face myself.

If these points, steps, ounces, pounds, were going to mean anything, if they were going to stick this time – I had to face every demon I had along the way.

I journal my way through it. I action my way through it. I self reflect my way through it. I learn my way through it. I teach my way through it. I fail my way through it. I surprise my way through it.

When I took my own hand several years ago, I knew I was finally ready to do all of the work necessary.

I had arrived.

I knew the weight wouldn’t come off and stay off if I didn’t take my heart, soul, spirit, emotions, and mentality on this wellness journey with me.

There are many pounds to go, but I’m light on my feet.

I wake up with joy in my heart.

I look ahead now and get to be curious about what’s coming on the horizon for me.

Something I paralyzed myself from doing before.

I say all this to say, that a bowl of pasta is just a bowl of pasta again.

I can taste the marriage of the sauce with the veggies and the seasonings. That complex, yet somehow subtle build-up and layering of flavors.

It’s no longer sprinkled and tossed with my sadness and my pain.

Bon Appetit. ❤

–S.

Close – October 2014.

He is 9.

I am 22.

Tonight, we laid intertwined in our parents’ bed. His legs over mine. My left arm under his head. The fan blowing cool air over our rumpled clothes clad bodies. ‘I Heard the Party’ by Gem Club was playing through the computer speakers.

Tears run down the sides of his face. He told me that he remembered this song. I’d played it weeks ago in my room and when he heard it for the first time, he cried.

It makes him sad. When I ask him why he is crying he tells me that he doesn’t want any one of us to die. That he wants us to always stay together.

I promise him that we won’t die.

I don’t want to crush his innocence tonight. I just want him to be able to feel whatever his heart feels while he listens to the song. I know that society will soon try to shut down this emotional side of him. But he has a very big heart. I hope that it always comes out on top.

The second time we play it, tears run down the sides of my face. Although we are not necessarily crying about the same things, we are one. We are feelers. We get deeply connected to things. Our happiest moments seem to be lined with a little bit of sadness.

And we don’t have to talk about it.

We just let the melody and the lyrics of the song do that for us.

Even though we’ve barely exchanged four sentences the entire day – in this moment, we are closer than we have ever been.

Both mourning something that has yet to come and that we cannot explain.

–S.

A Perfect Day – Eleven Years Ago.

I took my little brother out for hot dogs, ice cream, and some hardcore dance sessions during the car ride to retail therapy outlet mall.

Every time I think I know everything there is to know about that nine year-old boy, he surprises me.

He no longer eats his hot dogs plain. They are topped with ketchup and mayonnaise now.

His favorite song range from Lana Del Rey to Daft Punk (which he calls Drift Punk, and he tells me that EVEN our dad knows that’s their band name).

As I shift through the three radio stations I generally listen to, he directs me to stop at the ones that play the first song that catches his attention.

I lower the music to point out the airplane in the air, or the dog on the sidewalk with its owner, and he nods and smiles quickly, and turns the music back up.

He still misses our cats and dogs that have passed, and doesn’t quite understand where they go.

He closes his eyes and gets lost in the music.

He moves his head to the beats and pretends to know the lyrics as he lip sings.

Sometimes he actually knows the lyrics, and I look over in surprise, and he gets shy, lowers his eyelids, and stares away with a secret smile.

He gets the cone with vanilla ice cream, dipped in chocolate, with some crushed nuts.

He has an ice cream mustache the entire time, and while I am driving – I am frantically looking for something to wipe his mustache away. I forget in moments like this that he is nine. He can wipe his own mustache – if he really wants it gone. He is almost growing out of all these things.

He will eventually stop asking me to open his coke, or rip open the ketchup packet, or help him pass a level on a game. He will start doing these things independently.

Along with this – our dance sessions while riding in the car will become rarer.

It’ll start becoming embarrassing for him to do so and he will become old enough to stay home by himself and pick playing Halo 4 over going to Target.

I like to write about these emotions, these memories, because one day they will fade as well. I won’t remember them quite as vividly. I won’t remember that I was wearing my aqua button-up shirt with skulls and roses – that is way too big for me now because I’ve been losing weight. I won’t remember that E smelled like my dad’s aftershave because he says it holds for 72 hours. I won’t remember that we actually saw a woman who was crossing the street get hit by a car with our own eyes. I won’t remember that he didn’t get ice in his drink because he says his Dr. Pepper will start tasting like water. I won’t remember that he had a small red pimple on the front of his nose. I won’t remember that he wore his Champion sweatpants backwards for the second day in a row.

One day it won’t be hot dogs, ice cream, and dance. For E, it might be girlfriends, skateboards, and staying up late. For me, it’ll be a career, paying off student loans, and going to sleep early. I hope we always at least vaguely remember a time when life was simpler. Moments where we were infinite with David Guetta blasting in the backyard, ice cream mustaches, and soda highs.

–S.