Steph Campbell

I don't love where I live.  No offense to the Berkshire natives - but frankly, it's just not for me.  It's a beautiful place to visit.  And it is especially wondrous if your companion is a "au natural, crunchy granola" nature.  However; when the personality you reside with craves city lights and angry cab drivers, a plethora of eccentric people and smog filled air - living in the western part of Massachusetts is a bitch.  I stayed to create peace for my son.  Well... and myself too, I must be honest.  It was not easy to do, but I had to face that raising my boy took precedence over my hunger to fill my desires.  I won't bore you with the details - but suffice it to say I avoided a very nasty custody battle by looking on the outside like a conformist - you know the one who "lost".  I didn't want to risk losing my son - not even it meant a small percentage of a possibility that it could happen.  I just wouldn't do it.  He ...

"Food is the most overused anti-anxiety drug in America" - Bill Philips I guess Mr. Bill thinks he knows a thing or two about food addiction, huh?  What he says is true, and I promise this quote will not inspire anyone to change.  At least not the mind of a food junkie. I used to sit in my living room and eat nacho cheese flavored Doritos after bringing my Mother to Butler Memorial Hospital for the umpteenth time. I remember how alone I felt. I would get home after the drive - of course this was after being pulled out of algebra class (or whatever the class du jour was) by our principal telling me that I had a telephone call waiting for me in the office. He would stare at me with sad eyes and say in a sympathetic tone "it's your Mom." I would walk down the MHS corridor taking deep breaths knowing that although there was a plethora of scenario's that could unfold during this call - one thing was for certain - my mother was very sick and I need...

             I sat in church unable to cry the day after the funeral.     The church was empty, and I sat, three pews back, staring up at the 12-foot hanging crucifix and following the details of this statue with my eyes.   I gazed for what seemed like hours at the thorns digging into Jesus’s skull, the drops of blood running down his calm face, the cloth sheath that only covered his genitals.   I noticed the forgiveness in the eyes of this man-made sculpture.   I wished I could talk to Jesus in that moment because I had so many questions to ask him.   Earlier that morning my Mother asked me to go to the store and get some milk.   She told me to grab five dollars from her purse.   As I shuffled through the papers and such I came across the letter I wrote to Dad, unopened and forgotten.   I flipped out; this was my only means of saving him last week.   The letter clearly told him to...