Steph Campbell

I have a good life. I have an amazing son who is developing and growing more miraculously than I'd ever dreamed he would.  I take little credit.  He is his own grower.  Even though most of the time my mind tells me I am personally responsible for nearly everything that comes out of that beautiful mouth of his.  That I am accountable for all the movements he makes and choices he pursues. Even though this mind has staked my life on a one way silent agreement with God that he live a long, healthy and prosperous life - even though - he has his own path, his own way to make, his own thoughts.  He is his own grower. I have a good life. I have a roof over my head, money to pay my bills, a plethora of friends and love and family.  I have a voice that sings, music in my heart, and food in my belly. I have a good life. I can see and hear and my limbs work fine.  I can sit then stand I can breathe then hold my breath.  I have survived several wars of the mind and heart.  I have eve

"Steph's a professional singer" Boasted a proud friend as she introduced me to a woman she was chatting with.  It was opening night of the spring musical at my son's high school.  Little did I know that the dagger eyes that were about to scope me up and down with a look of disgust was in fact the mother of the female leading role. I walked up to tell my friend how wonderful her son was as the leading role. She modestly thanked me and quickly turned the attention away to "the woman."   It quickly became clear to me that (for lack of a better phrase) the "mother of the bride" was intent on sucking up all the praise of the moment.  I understood my friend's dilemma and went with the flow. "Oh your daughter was great!  You must be very proud." Not even a smile.  She turned her head slightly and looked at me through the corner of her eye with a hate that although familiar I had not felt in many years.  Me being who I am moved in clo

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 was born here, we st

"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 listen to the doctors and get to Mass General and I believed in all of my innocence that I failed to sa

It’s the ninth day of the vipassana retreat. I have spoken no words, made no eye contact, nor have I so much as touched another living soul. I have sat still with the sensations in this body.   I have learned to visit the tightness in my neck and legs and be with it as it is not as I’d like it to be.   I take off the generous clothes that have   embraced me all day and slip into my favorite pink-and-white flowered nightgown faded and torn.   I gather my toothbrush and face wash, stored in my stark, barren single bed room, and I walk across the hallway to the bathroom.   There I prepare to retire for the evening.   It has been a long journey, worth it none-the-less. I look in the mirror and there she is.   The face I have seen reflected back to me for the past 41 years.   Ever changing, growing older for sure, but the same eyes staring back at me, the same soul.   I am humble and my ego is on sabbatical. I take the rubber band out of my hair and run my fingers down my skull to release t

Stuffing Myself Silly - The Story of a Food Junkie: "These Kinds Of Days" : I've been stuffing myself silly again.  Yes, it it true. Food is a way of both punishment AND pleasure for me. I have watched and lear...