I would bleed out in the pursuit of perfection.
And I have tried.
The red, dried blood cakes beneath my nails,
After hours spent, standing naked in front of the mirror,
Berating and cursing the imperfection of my stomach,
Loathing every stretchmark and scar. Raking my fingers
Over the flesh I hate.
This is the body of a woman.
But this body tells a history of loss, love, and life,
A story of two boys who changed everything.
Dimpled thighs with no gap in between them,
A gift from my mother, a legacy of strength and steadiness.
The fullness of my hips tells of cupcakes,
Shared among friends, of laughter and happiness.
The breasts that sway too much
Have fed babies and made grown men weep.
This is a body of a woman.
It is mine, the mortal flesh the Lord granted me,
The one thing I can't take with me when I leave.
It can be ugly and breathtaking, young and old,
Desirable and womanly, but never enough for him.
Not enough for me. But it is mine.
Every inch speaks of tears and tenacity, of peace and pain,
Curves of womanhood that deserve worship.
Love. Lust. Acceptance.
It houses my heart and soul. All that matters.
This is a body of a woman.
I remember the first time I thought I was fat. I was six years old, and probably weighed forty-five pounds. I was at my friend's house. She had a pool and we wanted to go swimming, but I didn't have my bathing suit. I suggested that I could borrow one of hers, but she said I couldn't because I would stretch it out. I was in the first grade and I realized that my thighs rubbed together.
They still do today.
I am not thin. I never will be, and this haunts me. No seriously. I know I'm funny and sarcastic about almost everything in my life, but the fact that I'm not skinny is something I'm obsessed with. OBSSESSED. I can't get over it. A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend about my personal trainer, and I was telling her all the parts of my body that I wanted to work on: my arms, my legs, my back, my stomach, my butt, my hips, my inner thighs. I told her that the only part of my body that I like is my elbows, and she looked at me, her pretty blue eyes wide with disbelief, and asked me if I had a body dimorphic disorder. Whenever I see a picture of myself, all I can see is my wide hips, my giant, sausage arms, and thick, thunder thighs. In this world, it's not your goodness or you kindness that attracts people. It's your tight ass and skinny arms.
People think I'm crazy when I bring up my insecurities. They try to be kind and tell me, "But you're so strong. You have muscles. And yours boobs." This is the opposite of what I want to hear. Putting on a swimsuit is a freaking nightmare. I love the beach and the water so much, but I sit on my towel, afraid that if I move, my legs will jiggle. Because I am not thin, I feel like a less of a person. Like I don't matter or I'm not a romantic option to men because I'm not a size zero. Mara keeps telling me that there are men out there who will go crazy for my body. It has to be a lumberjack, hiding out there in the deep woods of Florida, because I can't find him.
You accept the love you think you deserve and that is why I ended up with my asshole ex-husband. No one had ever loved me before, and I thought it was my only shot. This body is the reason I can not have the man I want. (You all know it's a blond lumberjack or Zac Efron). To those men, I am a friend. Maybe if I lost ten pounds it would be different. Believe me, I'm trying. But I also love dessert, so I'm not sure it's worth it.
Loving myself has always been a struggle, but I'm trying. I could find in the breakdown, so there must be some on the upswing. I am not this body, but it is me, and I'm trying to be kind to it.
