Friday, 8 May 2009

(no subject)

Friday, 8 May 2009 16:59
earthbelow: (mood: sad/blah)
Dear Body,


I hate you. I don't know any other way to say it. I hate you so completely that it almost hurts.

I hate that you don't work the way you are supposed to. I hate that you're still relatively brand new and yet so many things about you are broken, damaged, and only running at half speed. I hate that I must put so much time and effort and money into maintaining you when I shouldn't have to. You're 25. You shouldn't be like this. You should be beautiful and healthy.

I hate that you resist any attempts at improvement. I hate that you hold onto weight even when I exercise you and you ache and you sweat, but should I indulge in something as simple as a pudding cup or a graham cracker, the next day I'm sure to see another two or three pounds added to your ungainly heft.

I am so uncomfortable inside you and have always been. You make me miserable and all my joys are in spite of you, not because. I think of all the things that have been taken away from me because of you. Ever since I was a child, there have been things that I wanted badly but could never have, because of you. Every thing from a pretty dress to the respect and esteem of my peers has been always just beyond my grasp because of you. Because you are ugly.

I have never been asked for my number because of you. I have never been asked to dance because of you. I have never gone into a store and had the reassurance that at least one thing there would fit. The list is so long that I stopped keeping it a long time ago.

I can't even run. I want to, so badly. I wish I could jog around and around when the morning is just getting started and the air is crisp and the trees have just bloomed. I can't. You won't let me. I've tried to push you and push you, but after no more than two block you refuse to go further. The lungs don't work, the side hurts, you become so heavy that your own legs can't even hold you up. If I think about what I must look like, jiggling like a pig on two legs down the street, I can hardly stand to stay outside. Sometimes I wear jackets or long pants when I'm hot so that nobody has to see you. Sometimes I just don't go out and I stay inside when I'd love to be somewhere else. The closest I can get to know what it's like just to run, for the sheer joy of running, on a beautiful spring day is a video game.

Why do you trap me like this? What did I do to deserve you?

I hate that when someone meets me for the first time, they must try to look around or through you to see me, that I must convince them that I am more than this hideous shell. I hate that so many people look at you and think, "What horrible thing must live inside that terrible body?" I must work twice as hard to convince each and every person I meet that I am worth their while, even doctors.

More than that, I hate that you make all compliments a lie. I can never hear the words "you're beautiful" or even "you're pretty" without hearing pity or outright deception in it. No matter who says them or why. Because I've seen you. I've lived with you all my life and one thing is abundantly clear: you are not beautiful. Not one part of you. The shape of you, the feel of you, the way you move, the way clothes hang off your form, the colors of you - it's all somewhere between mediocre and disgusting. At best, you are bland and serviceable with a few traits that are less hideous than the rest, so people pick them out and say to me, "Oh, you have pretty hair. You have pretty eyes."

I would tear you off of me piece by revolting, fatty piece if I could and watch you burn away until all your heaps and rolls of blubber and your stretch marks and your mousy hair and your sagging breasts - the ones that never once permitted me to go without a bra or even run comfortably - and your squat, graceless feet and your fat legs and your unseemly apple shape were melted away into ashes that I could hide somewhere, under a bed or in a closet, so no one would know you ever existed. I would deny all knowledge of you if I could.

But what galls me more than anything is that I have so much I want to do in my life. I want to go so many places, meet so many people. I want to help people, bring joy, create beauty, find truth, give comfort, leave a mark. But in all this, I must lug you around. I can't get away from you. Not for a day, an hour, a single moment.

You're this terrible, hideous thing and when you hurt, I hurt. When you die, I die. I have to live with you until you decide to take us both down with you, and there's nothing else I can do.

That's the worst. I think I could live with you like this if I knew you were a temporary cellmate and that I'd get a parole and be free and leave you behind. But I won't. We're bunk mates on death row and I have to die wearing your face and I hate it.

I hate you, so please stop making this harder than it has to be. Just do what you're supposed to for once, okay? I think I've sacrificed enough for you. Why don't you do the same for me?


Hatefully Yours,
Meg

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earthbelow

August 2009

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