One thing that should be known about a Lynda is that she cannot resist sweets. If sweets are freely available on the table “to share” then she will eat them. All of them. Though she is slim, she can eat you way under the table. And when it comes to cookies and chocolate especially: Self-control? Out the window. Who needs it?
Oh, Sugar: Darling. The signature of her American upbringing raging its fiery tongues to salivate on that delicious nonsense. No nutritional value, and oh how it rots my teeth and clogs my arteries. Oh, that taste!
I confess. It was me who stole the last cookie from the cookie jar. This was because I wanted a snack while I was making my chai, but then I also wanted something to dunk into my chai. Thus, I ate two cookies. Yes, it was me.
That was biopsy day two. They scraped and cut out pieces from the inside of my body. Even with anesthesia, I have never known a pain like that. You say you know what that’s like, but you don’t act like it. Why did you have to yell at me? I just wanted to give you a hug. I was crying, and I guess to you this makes me a child, but while you were angry all I felt was love. Can we please talk about compassion?
Nevermind. That’s asking too much. I said I wanted to apologize and I do. I love you, because you are me. I love your warm smile and I miss it so much. Remember that when we first met in person, we just laughed and hugged each other warmly based on some strange shared intuition? I love you.
Back to the sugar addiction. You see, when I was in India for six weeks we were not allowed sweets. One day in the local market I found an oddly branded can (yes, a metal one) of peanut butter. It was as though they had received an import from a foreign land with no translation or explanation. Suggested uses included spreading on to a chapati. The can had a label with two 1950’s style idyllic American children smiling and licking their lips. This peanut butter became my most coveted possession during those last weeks of the Yoga Teacher Training in the Himalayas. I hid it behind my pillow.
So, I’m sorry that stole your midnight snack. If you had told me, I would have left it for you. I would have combated my sugar addiction and I would have been happy to know that I could put my own desires aside for you.
I’m sorry that I am exactly the kind of woman you hate. I’m sorry that I stay up late, that I sing loudly along with Amanda Palmer and Billie Eilish while staring at the lyrics on my screen so I can time it just right. I’m sorry that I order packages from around the world so that I can adorn myself with elaborate fashions styled to the nines because it make me feel like a fucking badass artist. I’m sorry that I have a need right now to reclaim my body, and that wearing lace, silk, cashmere and leather is the way I am doing it. I’m sorry that I kiss your cat goodnight sometimes. I’m sorry that I gave her a treat once just to reward her for head-butting me in a really adorable way. And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry that I’m loud, and theatrical, and dramatic. I’m sorry that you probably think I am manic (I’m not, I’m just extraordinarily resilient and naturally exuberant).
But I am NOT sorry that I enjoy being myself so much. I am not sorry that I cry all the time in my own room, and that I sometimes do it loudly. I’m not sorry that I feel everything so strongly all of the time. I am not sorry that this makes you very uncomfortable. I’m not sorry that I am always cheerful and positive towards you and others even when I’m suffering so much, even if this confuses you. Writing is my salvation, and I never want it to stop.
I should let my sweet, patient readers know that I’m doing a lot better than my writing might make it seem. I cannot express my sadness or my anger through my vocal chords very well, especially not in the presence of another/others. Writing is my release. It’s the space that feels the most intimate.
But if you were to see me and we were to look into each other’s eyes, chances are I will be jovial and laughing because I’ve already written my way through the darkness.