I wreck myself.

I was with my sisters today. After church we went to Bend. We had to pick up Mandy. (I wore these old eyeglasses frames that I want to take to Costco so they can put lenses in.) And then we met with Derrick. And he gave us free chai tea. And it made me glad.
We went all over downtown. In an antique shop and other places. I almost keeled over when I saw the spoon rings in the antique shop. I love rings. Then I looked at my hands. I hate my hands.
I destroy them.
I don't really do it on purpose. I guess I don't. Sometimes I forget. And I do.
I bite my fingernails. I make them ugly. I tear at my fingers. I make them bleed. I do it till they hurt and the skin around them swells.
I hate it.
I don't know how to stop. I've tried almost everything. Lemon juice. Nail polish. Hot sauce. Candy. Gum. Alcohol. Rubber bands on my wrists. Notes on my palms. All of it. I've tried. And I think I've almost given up. I think I believe my hands will always look like this.
I had a dream the other night that it was my wedding. And the photographer was taking pictures of my husband's and my hands. His were perfect. Strong. Big. Manly hands. Mine were disgusting. Scabbed over. Torn. Swollen. Broken. Smaller. They made me want to cry. They were so ugly in my dream.
I woke up and freaked out.
And I've been freaking out ever since. Like today. In the antique shop looking at the spoon rings and having a complex.
I hate my hands.
When it's cold in the morning, they hurt when I wake up. I don't think they're pretty. I don't know how to stop. My hands are terrible. And I'm usually really good at hiding it.
Not anymore.
The mornings are really cold lately.
I hate my hands.

I love writing about girls with small hands and slim fingers and fingernails like little pink polished pearls.

socks.

Dear Fleur.
Woke up this morning with my Mamie shaking me by the shoulders.
Rolled out of bed.
Tired eyes.
Piled my hair on top of my head.
Pulled a white knit cable sweater on.
Looked out the french doors and saw the snow on the ground.
& Skyped Sam.

This boy.

(That lovely lady is Kaylene. She's a brilliant soul.)

He's doing fine. Caught a petite cold. But fine.
We talked about socks. And people who hate us. Did you know, not a lot of people hate me? I never thought of that. But then I wonder, how many people actually love me? And I think, if putting all of my pairs of socks on someone's doorstep would make them love me, I would do it. But I'm a ridiculous person. So I don't know.
What would I do to get someone to like me?
Really. How far would I go?
And do people actually like me?
Really. In their hearts?

I LIKE SOCKS TODAY.
I have tube socks running through my head.

Love from Bell.