For as long as I can remember I wanted to and needed to write. I’m taking
the time to revisit stories, old and new, that I have written and ones yet to come alive. Ever
since I was a child I kept a diary and in my adult life, a journal. It’s one in the same, isn’t it?
Writing is sacred, sensitive, can take the most bleak moments and turn them into something
funny or hopeful. Language and words are a gift and I’m excited to finally have the courage
to share some of my greatest longings here.
I hope you enjoy reading the stories as much as I’ve enjoyed living them (most of them)
and writing them.
By the age of thirteen I had a growing girdle collection. The girdles hugged all of my roundness tight, so that my flesh would no longer jiggle. My young tummy was large and saggy and needed to be controlled — or so I was taught.
The first time I ever masturbated, I was wearing a girdle. I was girdled for all special occasions. I wore a girdle to my uncle’s wedding, and again to my aunt’s wedding two months later. Confirmation and junior-high-school prom: both girdled.