All of Me Read Online Free PDF

gaping, black
hole was still there, but it didn’t hurt as much.  Or maybe it did and he just
couldn’t feel it because of the adrenaline and muscle pain.  The shame,
depression, fear, and self-loathing were definitely still there; lurking around
the hazy perimeters of his consciousness; refusing to be contained or ignored. 
    But
self-flagellation helped with that too.  It was much easier to hate yourself
when you were half-dead from exhaustion because usually you passed out before
things could get really ugly between you and yourself. 
    Danny always
referred to Nathan as a Men’s Health model to piss him off and his sex partners
had never complained about his physique, but it wasn’t vanity or health that
compelled him to work out to excess.  It was a law-abiding, socially acceptable
way of punishing himself…of self-medicating.  Of creating physical of pain to
distract him from other pain.  No different from the cutters, the junkies, and
the alcoholics.  Nathan was no mental health expert, but it didn’t take Dr.
Phil to figure this one out. 
    His muscles
screaming in agony and his hands bleeding and raw from using the bars without
gloves, Nathan took another shower.  He slathered his hands with Neosporin,
wrapped them in gauze, and climbed back into bed.  He stared at the ceiling
until exhaustion took over and he finally slept.   
     
    ***
     
    If I don’t feel
better in a few minutes, I’ll call a sister. 
    It was nights like
this Stella regretted not moving in with Fi and Kat.  They’d invited her, but
she’d wanted her own space.  Most of the time, Stella was with them at their
houses, Pops’, or here, but she sometimes she enjoyed having a little space and
time to herself after over a quarter century of having them two inches from her
face 24/7.  And she loved her little bungalow.  It was on a beautiful,
tree-lined street in a great neighborhood and had tons of character.
    But it was also
empty at the most inopportune times.  Like 3 a.m. on a Saturday night.
    Stella paced her
front room floor, totally oblivious to the rerun of The Golden Girls she’d turned on for background noise. 
    Breathe.  Don’t
catastrophize.  Assume the best until you hear the worst.  
    So she’d just
found a lump in her right breast.  It could be nothing.
    Or it could be
cancer and I’ll lose your other breast.  Maybe your life, if it’s advanced.
    Oh, God…
    Stella rubbed and
probed the lumpy tissue until it became sore to the touch.
    See?  It’s
sore.  Something is wrong.
    Stella rolled her
eyes.
    Or it could be
sore because I’ve been rubbing it like a magic lamp for two hours.
        Stella dropped her hand and forced herself to sit on the couch.  She
tucked her right leg under and bounced her left at an impressive rate. 
    It killed mom. 
It could kill me too.  The younger you get it, the more aggressive it is. 
    Stella chewed her
thumb nail.
    I could do the
reconstruction.  But Dr. Aboud said there might be complications.  And I really
don’t want to go through all those surgeries.  But then I’ll have no breasts.
    Stella buried her
face in her hands and tried to get a grip.
    I’m alive. 
They’re breasts .  It’s not like they’re removing my brain, for God’s
sake.  Or my soul. 
    For no good
reason, he popped into her mind.  As in, what would a guy like him
think?  And, I bet he’d never be interested in a one-boobed woman, let
alone a no-boobed woman.
    “Ouch.”  Stella
realized she was rubbing the lump again and stopped. 
    Jesus, Stella,
who cares what he would think? He’s a womanizing BMOC who most likely thinks
you’re brawling white trash.  Or, more than likely, isn’t thinking anything
about you at all.
    Mentally and
physically exhausted from it all, Stella finally popped a baby dosage of Xanax
and stretched out on the couch. Her brain eventually slowed down enough for her
to fall into a fitful sleep full of dreams of her