RETROSPECT

I took a break.
'I didn't intend to but as it turns out being reported to social services wasn't exactly a laugh and a half and it left me feeling confused and vulnerable. Something so malicious, using my children as ammunition is a rough thing to experience. So I took a step back to reevaluate.
It also turns out that I stand by what I said before, I am not backing down to bullies. Never again. And I'm teaching my children the same.
Recently the world has been rocked by bullies. So many people have been killed by ignorant, selfish individuals that I have been aching with the world as it tries to recover.
I believe that we should all stand up to ignorance, we should stand up to bullies and strive for better. Strive to open the eyes of the ignorant before people get hurt.
And I was left with the question; what on earth I should do?Because my belief system is one thing but my fierce protection as a mother is another thing entirely. And I want to put an end to bullying, I want to teach my children not to lie down at the feet of bullies but to stand up and say "No! You cannot do this to me" but then, someone targeted me and used my children to do so and the fear that people will use children in such a way and so flippantly scares me. I was scared. I was angry.
Man I was so angry.
And my emotions kept me holding back. My fear held me back.
As a mother if someone threatens your children you will do anything you can to stop them and for me that was stepping away, shutting up and not speaking out.
But this is what I do.
This is a huge part of who I am and I am immensely proud of that.
And now not only can I talk about everything that pops up in my mind, I can honestly talk about my recovery. Recovery is lonely and isolating and bloody rough.
I can talk about that honestly.

So I'm back.
I'm back here.
I'm back on YouTube.
And I've reimagined and vaguely restructured my Instagram (hllylzbth not holz105).
Because I am entitled to do so.
My voice has worth.
I am worthy.
And absolutely no one is allowed to bully me into submission.

I strive to be an example for my children.
And this is me standing up, dusting myself off and carrying on.

A LINE HAS BEEN CROSSED

A situation arose late last week that I need to address.
Someone anonymously reported me to social services using my social media as the basis for their concern.
The allegations against me were problematic in that my social media within itself dispels all of them and therefore the basis for the concern. Not to mention the fact that to assume that I share everything online would be ignorant.
Before I address anything else I'll be clear in that social services take every report they get seriously and they have investigated me. And of course, they found nothing to worry about. I have since spoken to the schools of both children (due to concerns I'll talk about further down) and both gave me glowing reports of my children and their progress and both were shocked that it was my children being looked into.

The allegations were two pronged, first that I suffer from chronic mental health problems that I am not seeking help for nor getting any support and that are having an overwhelming and debilitating effect on my life, which they believe puts my children at risk. Second that I use my social media to post pro eating disorder content and deliberately target vulnerable people and put them at risk.

It is incredibly difficult to believe this person contacted social services for a reason born of true concern. I believe that this was malicious. When making their report against me so much information that is readily available was left out. I talk so candidly about my life that I have discussed the community mental health team, my GP, the progress I've made including my weight gain and my relationship with Harrison and my mother. I post photos of the latter and have done so very recently. It is absolutely not difficult to find information that disproves these allegations and that was the exact information that was failed to be reported. Had it been reported then the picture painted of my and my abilities as a parent would be very different. I believe that it was a deliberate lie, either information was intentionally left out or this person had not viewed my social media to the extent that they claimed to have done, and would therefore not have been able to pass such a judgement.
On Thursday when I received the call I thought it was a joke, when I told my friends and family about it they thought it was a joke. Most of them follow all my social media, including my mother who would read me to absolute filth if she felt that I was endangering anyone with my content. Having watched me systematically destroy my life during my breakdown she is now the first to confront me at the first sign of anything that has the potential to escalate. I called her after I spoke to the social worker, hers is the opinion I value above all else when it comes to this, and while I had absolute confidence in both my abilities as a parent and that my content online is safe and balanced, I couldn't be absolutely sure until I spoke to her.
Everyone I've spoken to about this has been confused, some have been angry and others hurt. But all have been confused. Because it is absolutely clear that Dylan and Isla are happy and healthy and for someone who doesn't know them, someone who has never met them and doesn't even know their names to tell social services otherwise is ludicrous.

From the moment I learned of these allegations I had had no concerns about what they would find. I know the kids are surrounded by more love than they could comprehend, that they are happy, healthy and full of life. I know that while my mental health could pose as a problem (and I have been confronted with this before) I have a wealth of support and I am confident that I parent in a way that keeps them both safe and aware that the way I look and eat isn't normal and that it will change. That I am working on changing it. I know that despite my struggle accessing professional support it is not through lack of trying and that I last saw my psychiatrist last week. I know that if he had a concern about my mental health being a danger to Dylan and Isla he would have had to contact social services, and of course he didn't. I know that while seeing an emaciated body can be shocking and upsetting I am candid about my struggles and also my triumphs. I take care when taking and posting photos onto my mental health specific Instagram and when writing the accompanying captions. I make sure the language I use and the information I post about my anorexia and where I'm at is balanced and as safe as possible so I can avoid triggering people. And above all I am clear in saying that that account shows one side of my life. And that I use it to vent, document and as an extension of my advocacy. I signpost people here and to my other Instagram to see how my life is day to day. Because while I suffer from a number of mental health problems and they of course have an affect on my day to day life they are absolutely not in the forefront. I know that I am not proana.

So now it has all be confirmed that social services are not concerned and will not investigate any further. I will admit, I am relieved. While I never had any concerns about my children and their safety I was absolutely concerned about the potential affect these allegations could have on my advocacy work and on my future counselling training and work with young people. Schools and services working with vulnerable young people don't really invite people being investigated by social services onto their premises to work with the people they are in charge of. This is what I do and this person and their allegations could have potentially endangered that. For someone who claims to be concerned about vulnerable people their actions could have left vulnerable people without support. And for someone claiming to be concerned about my stability they put that in jeopardy. You know, while I had full and absolute confidence in the fact that social services wouldn't be concerned, I suffer from anxiety and the stability I fought to gain and maintain means that I am not medicated (something else I've spoken about several times), regardless of my confidence this was incredibly triggering especially given that I am working through past trauma pertaining to a bad experience with social services (something else I've spoken about recently on Instagram). I am incredibly lucky that I have both the stability, insight and most importantly support that I do or else this had the potential to undo a lot of the progress that I have made recently.

The only concern I have that remains is down to the fact that a person would do this. Concern or not the claims they made in order to give their report weight were false. And if I am right and it was done out of malice then it is incredibly scary that someone would come after me and use my children to do so. Above all else their happiness and safety are my concern which is why I have had meetings with both of their schools. I never imagined that their happiness or safety would ever be something I had to be concerned about because I post online, and yet apparently I was wrong.
I have considered closing my social media accounts and I wouldn't be surprised if some people think I should, to protect my children if I am concerned about their wellbeing. However I teach my children to stand up to bullies. I want to practice what I preach. And in all honesty, I don't want to. These accounts are incredibly important to me. I use them to document my journey in an open and honest way which in many ways keeps me self away and accountable, things I need to maintain my stability and wellbeing. I use them for support and to give support and I cannot tell you how much it means to me when I receive messages reaching out to tell me I've helped them in a positive way. Next to keeping my children, the thing that brings me the most fulfilment is knowing I can help people. My social media has given me platform to reach out and I've had amazing opportunities as a result, my advocacy work being the most important of all of them. That is the thing that made me realise that I wanted to be a counsellor. I wouldn't have half the fulfilment, hope or happiness that I do had I not started speaking on social media.
So I'm going nowhere.
But over the next few weeks I will be making a few small changes to my social media and I'll be working closely with both children's schools and keeping them aware of any new developments if there should be any. And I hope there aren't.

I am feeling a big jumble of emotions about this and they'll probably take me a while to work through. I'm both embarrassed and devastated that it happened and that my children were dragged into it. But it has, and I can't change that. All I can hope is that some good can come from it and some lessons can be learned.

I hope that this can be a reassurance to other parents struggling with mental health problems. Mental illness does not make you a bad parent and social services will not take your children because you're I'll even if you're open about it. If you're looking after yourself as best you can, accessing services, reaching out for support from friends and family and being honest with your GP, keeping yourself safe then your children will be safe. You don't have to be scared of repercussions if you reach out. Keeping yourself safe and happy is the best way to keep your children safe and happy.

I hope that this will be a reassurance to those who are truly concerned about my family. We are all doing ok. Sometimes things are tough but we're loved and supported by an amazing group of people and the progress I'm making is making a big difference. I have a long way to go in terms of my weight but I am stable and doing well.

I hope that this can be a lesson for people who think that because a person posts about their life online that they have been absolutely transparent about everything. I hope people realise that I do keep some things private and I am absolutely entitled to do that. Sometimes I keep things private because they involve other people who's life I do not have the right to post so candidly about without their permission. Sometimes I keep things private because it is still something that I need to work though in a safe environment. And sometimes I keep things private to keep my children and their friends safe. Sometimes I just don't say things because who has the time to share their whole life online? I wouldn't have time to actually live.

Above all I hope this is a lesson for the people who think that they can have any right to intrude in my life like this. I am open and honest and I think that is a positive thing. I post about my life across various platforms but that does not give you the right to cross over into my real life unless you ask or are invited.
This was absolutely crossing a serious line and that is not ok.
And if you still insist on being so intrusive there are ways to intrude on my life that do not involve my friends, family and most importantly children.
Someone who doesn't have the privilege to know Dylan and Isla has no right in even attempting to intrude into their lives. Absolutely none.
It is not ok.
And I hope that if this has taught anyone anything it has taught the person who did this that they were out of line.

WHY EATING DISORDER RECOVERY IS RUBBISH

There's this movement online, especially on Instagram. #REALRECOVERY and its full of hyper positive people, mostly girls and young women who are so utterly psyched about how absolutely wonderful and #posi recovery is that they will literally scream at you through their use of capitals, hashtags and emojis mixed in among the normal text.
Now, maybe I'm wrong (probably. But also probably not) but these people are not experiencing a real recovery. And if they are the certainly aren't documenting it online. Because I can promise you, an eating disorder sufferer faced with an entire pizza and then dessert at their kitchen table will not be utterly thrilled. I would probably cry.
And I don't understand this need to make recovery seem fun or positive or easy. It's not. It's really, really not and I don't understand this false image being projected. I understand the #recoverywin's because eating the above pizza and ice cream without throwing it back up despite the fact that it took you two hours and you cried and possibly screamed a bit is a genuine win.

But I'm sorry, recovery is crap.
It sucks. It's miserable and painful and in many instances you spend a decent about of time sinking deeper into the psychological side of your eating disorder while your body is busy healing.
Recovery isn't a fun positive journey in the slightest and I think it's irresponsible that it's being projected as one because it just makes people (me) feel like a failure because as rubbish as recovery is it's no way near as rubbish as the absolute hell of an eating disorder. So the fact that you can't get better just fuels the disorder you're trying to recover from because there's nothing like the sense of guilt that comes from feeling like a failure to become a reason to self punish.

When you're in recovery you suddenly get to eat. Hoorah. Except you've forgotten how to eat normally so eating becomes your own type of personal hell, being terrified of over eating and having no sense of perspective on portion size anyway so everything is too much. At least if you're going to keep it down. There's a good chance you'll have a few pretty horrific side effects to all that nourishing food too. Bloating being the most common. Bloating till your stomach is rock hard and distended so you could pass for eight months pregnant #realrecovery #posivibes I think not.

When you're in recovery your body uses the food you eat to heal your organs first, then muscles and bones etc. You're body rebuilds itself after you've relentlessly attempted to tear it into nothing. So you gain weight, a substantial amount, but the least important (hair aside, maybe) thing to heal is your brain. Your thoughts and emotions. So on piles the weight and the eating disorder is still there. When people say it's devastating to hear they look better, this is why. In their head they're still functioning at the same level they were -20lbs or more. Gaining weight is excruciating no matter how well you  rationalise it. And the more you gain the more you're screaming inside your head and the more you want to lose. But you're in recovery, and you know it's inevitable that you're just going to gain some more.
This tends to be the most common time for relapse, it's also the longest period of recovery. There's no telling how long it will take for the healing power of food to have a positive effect on your brain. I can tell you since my initial relapse at fifteen I've been in and out of relapses and only ever reached the glimmer of feeling ok or comfortable. It can take a long time.

Sometimes when you're in recovery you'll be put on a diet that follows the Minnie Maud approach. Part of my wants to roll my eyes so hard they'd roll down the hill into the river but the other part of me is angry because of how damaging I feel that approach is. How little it teaches portion control before discharge. Now there are absolutely other ways than eating 3000+ calories a day. And how utterly miserable it made me at first to be shovelling that volume of food down my throat. How unwell it made me to have that amount of food in my body. And how after discharge I genuinely couldn't stop eating that amount of food because no one taught me sodding portion control and within a few months I was using the tips I'd learnt in treatment to purge. Wow. Such a #superposi #realrecovery

Except these things. They are the reality of recovery. The guilt and misery and down right physical pain. Recovery is miserable.
But it's essential.

For me positivity isn't worth a single thing during recovery. Part of me is a pessimist with a been there done that attitude because this is the umpteenth time I've been round this crappy roundabout.
But honestly what pushes me is the reality of my situation as it stands.

Recovery is shit. I hate it. I end up angry and resenting everything because I don't want to do it and I turn into a petulant child faced with something they don't like.
But it makes me miserable, I stop enjoying food and obsess over the ins and outs and ups and downs. The scale is tantamount to the guillotine every morning and despite the fact that weight gain is my aim, if I do gain I can easily end up in tears. Again.
I get so bloated it's painful, I get sharp stabbing pains in my lower stomach like everything is stretched so tight I'm going to break.
I suddenly experience thoughts and feelings that I'm truly ashamed of, I feel like if I recover I'll be a failure of an anorexic. As if that is a bad thing. As if I want to be unwell or the best anorexic there is. Unable to recover.
I hate how I look, I hate my clothes fitting differently and my dysmohia that had been relative stable runs wild and I start completely imagining things on top of my inability to see a realistic image of myself.
I feel guilty every time I eat.
I feel guilty every time I inevitably slip up and have a lapse.
I hate myself with more intensity than I ever do in relapse because recovery is difficult and painful and directly challenges everything you feel you know about yourself. And even if you can see yourself without an eating disorder, you just start hating yourself for throwing everything away and falling into this horrific trap.

But some how the alternative is worse.
Eating disorders are painful. Throwing up until your insides burn and your skin is cracking really hurts.
Laxatives really hurt, I remember the first time I took the, I genuinely thought I might die.
Losing all your friends and family because you can't see them because socialising involves food or spontaneity or energy that you just don't have.
Feeding rules are painful. As are IV fluids getting pumped into you at triple speed making you puff up like the Michelin man and you arm sting until it finally goes dead.
Being unreliable at work and school and the constant fear that you'll lose your job and be unable to pay your rent.
The terror that you'll rub off on your younger siblings or your children and the crushing guilt because you can't recover for them and you love them to the ends of existence.
Taking your children to the beach and not being able to eat an ice cream with them, or any of the food you've laid out for their birthday party.
Having your kidneys shut down is pretty painful.
So are stomach ulcers.
And when your hair starts to fall out it can make you want to die. And while that's a massive over reaction, by this point you've lost your ability to be rational so the reaction is completely real and harsh.
Realising that your boyfriend is vaguely repulsed by your body sucks. Especially if you're neurotic and anxious and feel utterly worthless. Because if you don't understand why he's with you in the first place then realising how unattractive you are becomes hell every time you're not together.
And then I would assume death kind of sucks. And a death of an eating disorder is bound to be just as dramatic and painful as the disorder itself.

I'm writing and more of this is flowing out than I expected. So I'm going to stop that there because I've more than made my point.
Recovery is crap and horrible and sometimes kind of traumatic but it's essential. The alternative is endless suffering and guilt until you die. Hurting everyone you love in the process and then leaving them to pick up the pieces.
You don't tragically fade into nothing and then cease to exist like the romanticised idea pro-eating disorder people seem to promote. It's loud and angry and desperately sad. And everyone will be hurting alongside you although they won't feel the extreme amounts of physical pain.
So you have to recover because the only other option is death.
And in the irrational misery of an eating disorder death seems like a decent option, but dying of an eating disorder is just prolonging and extending the pain that is making you want to die in the first place.
So you decide to give recovery a shot. And it's just as hellish if not more so.

So I don't understand these people, these little communities of #realrecovery that isn't really real because they're all bloody grinning so hard their eyes might pop out at the thought of a bowl of macaroni cheese.
The only positive I find in recovery is that you probably won't die anymore. Oh and the occasional trip to Pizza Express with people I love washed down with a glass (or bottle) of wine. But I mean, I did that while I was in not recovery so I'm not sure how much that counts.

I just wish people were honest. I wish people weren't demonised for hating weight gain or having to eat. Because it's all part of an illness that they're still suffering from. Making me feel guilty for hating my body or being unable to be positive. Not being in some sort of warped #realrecovery just makes me feel even more rubbish. And I should be allowed to say that because whoever decided that recovery was a great, fulfilling experience probably hasn't ever had to recover from an eating disorder.

Or possibly a little drunk. Although even when I'm a bit drunk I still think it's shit.

I've realised recently that I actively avoid saying I'm in recovery even though I could never do anything other than strive for health and stability now my general mental health is more under control. Of course I'm in recovery.
But I hate saying it, and not because of the best anorexic thing I mentioned above. I hate it because I think it's shit. And hard. And definitely not #superposi.
In short, recovery is absolute pants because it makes my pants not fit and that makes me hate myself. But seeing as a coffin doesn't care whether my pants fit or not I have to keep fighting. 

                                       

         
And that is a #REALRECOVERY

BAD PIZZA

I really like food.

They say that many anorexics, in contrast to what the disease would have you think are foodies. I agree with that wholeheartedly, at least where I'm concerned. I'm a foodie. I love food. I love cooking food and eating food. Good food. Food with depth and flavour and different textures that make me want to eat. And it doesn't have to be expensive or swanky, I'm (theoretically) just as happy with a really good portion of chips from a chip shop as I am with a ridiculously expensive, incredibly swanky meal.
And this is more relevant to me now than ever.
My relationship with food is at an all time low and it's really bloody hard to fight it and pick myself back up again, especially when 'safe' foods tend to be rather bland and definitely too repetitive to really be enjoyable.
Recently I decided that I missed eating out.
For all the anxiety it causes I really enjoy going out for a meal. I have no rational reasoning behind it although I do suspect part of me just likes the normality of it despite the fact that the anxiety and rituals around eating out are anything but normal.
So I decided I missed eating out and therefore we decided to go for a meal and try and make it a regular thing.
I have a list of places where I can eat, another list of foods I can eat there and then another list of foods I want to eat there (have I mentioned I like lists?). It's served me well, cravings aside. Although I can't remember ever having crossed the line that I drew for myself and ordered from the 'I want to eat this' list.
Depending on where I'm at in my recovery my safe list changes and varies, right now even salad feels unsafe. I'll force it, but I don't feel very good about it.

So the first meal out (Pizza Express) I ordered a pizza. And it was good. Hoorah!

And I immediately decided that I absolutely had to have another so that cemented the whole 'trying to eat' thing for me because I had eaten, the world hasn't ended and more importantly I really enjoyed the food.

Recovery is funny (except not funny haha more funny bash your head against a wall and laugh maniacally), it's very difficult to reinforce the positive emotions and experiences that will be beneficial to your wellbeing and yet one bad experience can reinforce every negative emotion, thought or feeling you've ever had and then chuck a few more dodgy emotions on top to boot.
I'd eaten the pizza, I'd enjoyed the pizza, the world was still spinning and I hadn't gained a stone by the next morning. It would make sense that after that a salad at home would feel somewhat safer. But no, of course not. That fight is completely separate to the eating out fight. Except it's not. It's separate when we're talking positive reinforcement, but absolutely exactly the same when a bad experience comes knocking.

Strada was next. My choice, because I wanted a pizza. This pizza sounded good, actually it sounded pretty dreamy. Caramelised onions, mushrooms, spinach, aubergine, sundries tomato, goats cheese and other pizzery things I can't remember. Anyway it sounded delicious. It wasn't. And it wasn't hot.

It's difficult to describe how I felt after eating that pizza without sounding a little crazy.

I was angry. Angry at myself for eating. Angry at the pizza for not living up to expectations. And angry at myself for not taking 'necessary precautions'.

I was anxious. The anxiety over the impending food wasn't squashed by enjoyment so it became overwhelming. Will I gain weight? Am I bloated? I feel bloated. I want to go home right now and cry, not continue with our day. If I do that I'll be the ruiner of all the things. God I ruin everything. Why can't I be normal? I bet Harrison wishes I wasn't here. Does he hate me? At the very least he thinks I'm stupid as hell. I am stupid though. Wait am I overreacting? Was the pizza that bad? God is my 
brain tricking me into thinking it's bad so I won't eat again? Maybe. But if it is it's because I'm bloody fat and now I've just made it worse.
I was upset. I cried because it wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth the anxiety and the effort. It wasn't worth feeling so horrible just to add 'uncomfortably full of yuck pizza' to the list.
I quickly decided that I should probably just never eat again (impossible and irrational I know) just to avoid the possibility of this happening again.

But then my mother and saviour suggested a jaunt to Pizza Express after a family party and despite having decided to never eat again a few hours previously I knew that I would absolutely make exception for that pizza. And I think somewhere in my spiralling mind I was hopeful that another positive could undo this negative. But in the meantime I had the pleasure of resurfacing tears over cucumber because the fear was back. The bad pizza had reinforced all the negative emotions surrounding food. And notjust food, negative emotions about myself, about recovery and even the people around me. It's strange to think that a bad pizza can suddenly make you question whether or not someone loves you.

Pizza Express take two didn't happen.
Spontaneous meals are not a strong point of mine unless we spontaneously end up somewhere on my list. And even then you can bet that I'll be anxious, edgy and order at least once extra glass of wine. Or bottle of cider in this case.
Spontaneous meals that take place somewhere that doesn't have any vegetarian salads are harder still. But after toying with my options, debating calories and density and fat/carb/protein/do I even care about this stuff? content in my head I settled on a Superfood pasta. Kale pesto, rocket, sundried tomato, butternut squash, soy beans etc. Weatherspoon's used to do a superfood salad but now it's a pasta dish. I chose it, everyone was happy because 'Holly ordered pasta!?' and I had cider and that was as close to happiness as I could get given the utter meltdown that was occurring inside my head.
It came. I ate it. It wasn't great. In honesty it wasn't even good.

I was angry. Angry for eating, angry that pizza express was closed, any for choosing this dish and angry because why the fuck is this happening again?

I was sad. Because I was overwhelmed. Because again the anxiety just was not worth it and again I was left with a brain that was screaming and no one could see or have any hope of understanding.
I was anxious.
I was beaten.

Another night filled with horrible thoughts. Another morning filled with anxiety and uncomfortableness. Eating is harder. Thinking about eating is harder.
And why? Because of an unenjoyable pasta dish and a bad pizza?
When I had the good pizza all that I gained was cravings for that pizza and subsequent plans to somehow eat it again. And don't get me wrong, that is a big deal. But aside from that accomplishment what did I really gain from it?
The irrationality of an eating disorder dictates that you can eat a (specific) pizza and not gain weight but it's entirely plausible (in your head) that you will gain a stone from half a carton of soup. Which is why the soup is still in my fridge.
Why do the good experiences, the good pizzas, not weigh as much as the bad ones?
I resent the bad pizza.
I resent the fact that it was able to drag me backwards down a road that I had been struggling to journey along. That a combination of dough and vegetables seemingly turned me utterly loopy. And now I've suddenly remembered Polly from the documentary THIN, she attempted suicide over a slice of pizza. It sounds so ludicrous, laughable almost. But it's so real. Like I said, recovery is funny.
I resent the bad pizza because it's made me paranoid.
I resent the bad pizza because I feel like it along with the unenjoyable pasta make me look fussy.
I resent the bad pizza because it's made me worry that people will assume this is just my anorexia rearing its ugly head again.

I actually really dislike the bad pizza at this point.
And what frustrates me the most is that there are so many good pizzas. And not just The Good Pizza. I have eaten a lot of good pizza in my life. There is so much good food. Just scrolling back through my Instagram I can see meals out that I enjoyed and I know that Instagram doesn't even scratch the surface.

 


But somehow the bad pizza comes along and eclipses the good pizza. And not just that, it smothers the Brie and cranberry crepes, the amazing  although overwhelming pasta, the chips, the salads, the brownies,

The reality of recovery for me is like walking up a long, immensely foggy road in a country that has long, cold winters, long nights and hardly any daylight.

Good pizzas are the sunrise, bringing light and hope that I need to continue in my journey. My children are the sunrise, my family, friends, Harrison, a clean kitchen. But I still spend most of my journey without. Ugh light, stumbling over obstacles I cannot see and accidentally leaving the road travelling down paths that lead me astray.
Bad pizzas are the sunset, bringing darkness, cold and fear that is just not welcome.

I'll always have the moon I guess.
I am the moon. Giving just enough light to keep my holding onto the road because. I have to.

How else will I eat another good pizza?