you’re a tired (but still hidden) topic
Dear Body I work so hard to take care of,
I drink the water. I run the trails. I avoid processed foods until someone leaves a damn Sour Patch Kids bag laying about carelessly like they want me to go to war with small children or something! However, with the exception of a Migraine day where I just want nothing but a Coke from McDonald’s or the rare girls night where wine and cake seems like a formidable combination (spoiler alert: it doesn’t suck), I make a gigantic effort to take care of you. I am wondering why you won’t do me a solid and be thin already!
Thin & Beautiful
Dear Thin & Beautiful,
Logically, I know you are horse shit. You aren’t synonyms. Stop pretending you are. I can’t look at pictures of myself without seeing ugly because I first saw fat. I can’t get past that I am not worth diddly because I can’t seem to ever be both of you. So, I’ve settled. For an obsession with thin, every other accomplishment or thunderous character trait I am means nothing to me . I can’t see me without wanting you. Maybe I always was beautiful, but now somehow healthy, beautiful, smart, and funny are too far gone from me.
No, I want something much more unattainable. I want to look sick. I want the bags under my eyes to resemble a walking-dead Tim Burton character, for my hair to string, my jaw line to poke and prod out. I want my spine to pop-out the way red-haired Susan’s did in Catholic school when she bent over to drink out of the water fountain. I want hip bones, not curves. I want to give bruises with my bony elbows. I want to be able to pull my whole body up in a chair and there still be basically a whole seat left. To never eat a meal, to hear people say they can “snap me like a chicken,” and to make comments about how teeny I am.
Then, I’ll be beautiful, and happy. Oh, and lovable. I’ll be lovable.
Dear Sickly Thin,
I love the way your socks don’t stay on your feet because your Dad’s side of the family might be half-duck. Some of them have to have custom shoes made actually. I also love that you love ducks and didn’t get offended by that. Now, pull the heel of your sock up; it’s driving you crazy.
Is that better? I love your Harry Potter green eyes. They show Lily to the world. I love the blush you never put on; your cheeks came out of the womb that way. Don’t worry about those gym biddies that ask if you are okay. It’s okay that your face pops like a cherry when you run. You love to run. Don’t let them have that.
Your care and devotion to everything you put in, on, or absorb into your body is beautiful. You know so much. How to heal with an essential oil, wash your hair once a month- and that not having great hair actually, honey, you know it doesn’t matter that much. You’re talented with up-dos anyway and look best when not all strands are in place. Also, darling, you have an infectious smile and a joyous, peaceful face.
I know it’s hard to eat in front of crowds and that sometimes you want to crawl out of your skin, but please remember that for every time you say to others that you see them beyond their body, you got there because of me. You didn’t have superhuman strength that got you to the top of the mountain; you had to climb each step of the way. No one saw the first couple times your skinned a knee or gashed your arm until it bled, but you’ve gotten better at not only not slipping, but at stopping “saving face.”
Tell people. Expose the lies. Let them care about you and prove me wrong. Keep taking the steps to rid the world of me. Each rock you put a hand on, is one less stone that stops you from seeing the view.
So please eat. Run. Live. Wear the leather pants. Don’t be afraid of your arms or your hips. Smile wide open and tell the deprecation to unhook and fall into the pit. You are more than me. You are more than your bad moments. You are more than the times you think, if I can just starve myself, I’ll be worthy of this…
P.S. You are lovable.