Our bodies will always be the point of introduction to the world around us.
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“I feel like I owe them something. I have to prove to everyone that I was worth saving.”
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Distant, unlikely, preventative, in flux, ominous — once, there was an expiration date. Without it there was nothing to hold close. Numbness hit unexpectedly, so did that gift of tempting inaction. It was easy to fall into passivity and in a way, be still.
One morning I woke up and was surprised to find myself in a body of a woman.
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I’m 8 in the dressing room at a JC Penney and none of the clothes fit me, I sink to the floor.
My mom knocks at the door and says “Honey let me see, I’m sure you look pretty,”
But I don’t have the strength to tell her that once more, the clothes didn’t fit my shape.
I am a fifteen-year-old body, shrinking violet-lipped, dry-skinned, smug body. See my unravelling, see me feast upon my own flesh, see me disappear, see me. Don’t see me. I am a hologram – here one minute, gone the next.
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You see, in a past life
where I wore the same face, I died during childbirth. I remember
white gown, red blood stain of a life taken for another. I am not selfish,
Whether in calories or climaxes, welcoming a life of what feels good is quickly tied to greed, narcissism, egocentrism, and self-indulgence. For fear of what the neighborhood will whisper, no woman dare stitch the bold-faced, capital P on her pleasure-seeking chest.
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This is the moment I learn that my body does not belong to me. Forever a puppet in a battle that I did not choose.
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My way of learning to read my body as a sacred text came by way of experiencing such extended, chronic pain I had no choice but to look beneath my outward symptoms.
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In truth, there are wounded children in all of us that need to be loved back to life.
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