The regretful film of Funyuns and jerky resides on my breath for much longer than this drive should allow. My mundane inner quarrels start to dissipate with every mile marker I spy behind me. The tall, grey saguaro silhouettes slowly convert to the fullest, green blanket of pines. My breathing slows and my thoughts become more clear. As I roll down the window I am overcome with relief. The kind of relief you get as you catch yourself from falling. It has been too long.

My annoyance with the drive subsides and time is moving quickly now. Every shadow and every shape in the distance brings me comfort. As I am getting closer the butterflies disappear and my angst sets in. I veer to the right as close as I can, knowing these hills are dangerous if you don’t show them the respect they deserve. The fresh asphalt on this former dirt road puts a lump in my throat. Times are changing.

  I pull up to the house. It used to look so much bigger. I scramble to find an excuse as to why I needed to stop here, when the dead end is much further down the road. My heart races as my memories flood my eyes and moisten my cheeks. I cannot hate the man who now resides here now. He has done nothing wrong. And yet with every change he has made to the most perfect house I could wish for it feels like a stab to my heart. Does this man even care that there was a whole world here before he came along? All of the Christmases that were shared, or the games of cops and robbers? Does he, too, throw a rock into the air and blast it with a baseball bat into the treetops? In the morning does he fill the kitchen with the sizzling crackle of bacon that would awake a room full of sleepy kids? Does he ever walk down the concrete steps to see our names so lovingly signed and wonder who we were and why we meant so much to the man who placed us there?

  The empty space just to the right of the house used to hold a deck, a beautiful wooden deck that was never without company. We would sit around, so grateful the weather was nicer than Phoenix. How could he take this down? I peek beyond the house and around to the porch to see it has been removed, as well. It most likely wasn’t up to code when it was built, but how dare this man remove my grandfather’s hard work. Doesn’t he know the lengths my Nana and Papa went to create a house so full of love?

  This place, which I tried to assure myself was only walls and a door, was the last place I felt safe.

  I stop myself from getting out of the car. My nostalgia is replaced by the realization that I am alone and dangerously close to trespassing. I turn around and swallow my heartache. This is just a house now. Nothing more.

It is that time of year again. Some of us spend our cozy winters longing for the intoxicating caress of the sun here in our splendid Grand Canyon State. For the rest of us it is the painful reminder that our week-long binge turned into 6 months of disgust and self-loathing. If you’re like me, the anxiety hits hard and fast with every mention of a pool party or barbeque. Which fat girl will I have to be that day? The one who “already has plans”, the one who isn’t feeling great but will just put her feet in the water, or the girl that is brave enough to attempt a suit and hope no one loses their lunch? I look around at the girls who never had to think this way and can’t help but feel bitter that they will never feel this kind of pain. Not that they are bad people. Just that you will always be someone they could never understand. How hard is it to just eat healthy and exercise? The simplicity of that sentence is infuriating compared to the mind fuck it entails. Every week the elusive “Monday” fails to start with the same enthusiasm and positivity that my weekend free-for-all guilt has promised it would possess. This cycle is killing me.