I am more than a body

I am more than a body. 

I try to live by this sentiment.  I try to recognize that my thoughts and words are much more important than my thighs and stomach.  But I look at this girl in the mirror and I don’t recognize her.  Her thighs that jut out and stomach that hangs low.  I hate that girl in the mirror, I mock that girl in the mirror, I scold that girl in the mirror. 

I am more than a body. 

I find myself crying at random times in the day, for reasons I don’t know.  I was sick as a kid.  I was in the hospital for a month with nothing but IVs keeping me alive.  I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink. My mind has long forgotten this incident but my body has held on.  My body still experiences the pain, my body is still fighting against itself.  

I am more than a body. 

I’m trying to let go of the superficial.  Having a body makes that difficult.  I often have feelings that are too big for my body, feelings that want to keep climbing up and out, but my small body binds them.  Suffocates them and stops them from growing.  

I am more than a body. 

I find bodies limiting.  I want to creep into the smallest nooks and stretch to fill an entire field.  I want to take strides that are three blocks long and use buildings as stepping stones.  I want to hide beneath flower petals and fill my hand with a single raindrop.  I want to move with the wind and roll with the sea.  I want to be shape shifting, forever changing, filling up space but never to be seen. 

I am more than a body. 

It’s hard to separate your mind from your body.  Your identity from your body. Your soul from your body.  I forget that this body isn’t mine forever, that it doesn’t last forever like I do.  I’ve noticed that the older I get, the truer cliches become.  Things genuinely do happen for a reason.  The way I am isn’t a random collection of facts, but a perfectly sensical puzzle that I am just starting to put together.  This sadness isn’t random, this anger wasn’t an arbitrary decision made by God or Whoever.  

I am more than a body.  

My body holds my trauma. My body holds my trauma and that’s why she wraps me in layers and makes me feel sick to my stomach.  I want to stop hating my body, but the pain I feel just thinking about it, just talking about it, is what keeps me in my head, is what keeps me at a distance from it.  

I am more than a body. 

I don’t know if this sentiment is true anymore.  I don’t know if I should keep distancing myself from this thing that holds me but I don’t think I should hold it as my one and only glory either. My body has taught me a lot of lessons and insists on teaching me more.  Maybe my body is more a part of me than I thought, maybe instead of detaching myself from it, I should cling desperately and lovingly to it, because one day my body will be gone.  Instead of thinking of the hate I felt for it, I’ll look back on it as a warm, safe space, that carried me through an enriching and nourishing life.  

I am becoming one with my body.  

to the new year

To 2016, 

I’m scared for what you have in store for me this year.  2015 undid a lot of hard work that I had achieved in previous years.  I gained all the weight back, I fell back into my old anxious ways, and I’ve never been more angry or sad.  I want so much, I want to change so much, and the possibility of those goals being reached seem impossible to me.  

I know January 1st is just another day, that I shouldn’t be placing this weight on it, but I want a fresh start, I want to be a different girl than the one I am now.  This girl now isn’t who I am.  I don’t feel connected to my body or my mind, I feel like a stranger, like someone has abducted my soul and now I’m just an empty vessel.  

I want you to bring me so much, I expect so much from you, but you can’y give me anything.  2016 won’t change me, January 1st won’t change me, I have to change myself.  That’s why I’m scared, because I’m not sure if I can change myself.  I’m not sure if I have the willpower, the drive, the passion, the energy. I’m not sure that I care enough about myself in order to save myself.  

This is why I need you 2016, because even though January 1st is just another day, and you’re just another year, you bring me hope that maybe, just maybe I can become the person who I dream about being.  You allow me to dream of a better me, you allow me to think about myself, and you give me the opportunity to change. 

So, 2016, I’m going to take care of myself this year.  I’m going to treat myself right.  I’m going to love myself, feed myself, decorate myself, exercise myself, express myself.  I will change, and it might not be by the time you pass or the time 2017 passes or 2018 passes, but I will eventually become the person I dream about being.  Thank you for letting me see that.  

My regards, 

Madison 

A letter to and from an untrustworthy person

To an untrustworthy person, 

I don’t trust myself.  Not only do I not trust myself, but I don’t trust you either.  It’s not that your an untrustworthy person, it’s just hard for me to believe that the words you’re saying to me have any strain of truth in them.  

When I first met you, the kind words you would say to me were so genuine and would make my heart sing.  You said them without an agenda, without any real reason, the words just flew out of your mouth and surprised you just as much as they did me.  But now I feel like you only give me compliments when I beg for them.  You tell me I’m beautiful, but only because I said I was ugly first.  You say I’m smart, but only because I said I was stupid first.  I can hear the tiredness grow in your voice each time you have to repeat one of these phrases to me.  Your just as tired of my insecurities as I am.  

The longer we get to know one another, your compliments appear less and less genuine.  One of the first days we met you might’ve said something about how my smile reminds you of someone you loved, or how you found the sound of my voice comforting.  You don’t seem to recognize my details anymore.  I don’t seem to inspire intrigue or ingenuity in your thoughts of me anymore.  

That’s how my brain works.  I don’t trust the people who have known me the longest.  I’d rather be told by a complete stranger that I am beautiful than from my mother.  It’s irrational, yes, and I’m trying to change, but I don’t know how.  

Not only is it you I don’t trust, but it’s myself.  I don’t trust my ideas or reasoning of things.  I don’t trust my interpretation of situations or scenarios in my life.  I don’t trust myself to take proper care of myself.  I don’t trust my feelings and never seem to know why I’m feeling or what I’m feeling.  

I’m telling you this because you’re a friend, a parent, a sibling, a person who I know loves and cares about me, but please, I beg of you, don’t tell me to change.  Don’t tell me to just keep working on myself.  Don’t tell me that you are speaking the truth when you tell me these kind words, because that doesn’t work.  It only makes me feel more wrong and more distant from you.  It only makes me resent you more.  

I know you’re tired of how my brain works, of my inability to trust you completely, I recognize how it frustrates you and complicates a moment in your day, but I’m even more frustrated and tired of myself than you are.  It isn’t just one moment in the day, one fight, it’s every time I sit in my bed feeling small and big all at once, contemplating who I trust to call, only to recognize that it is no one.  

From, 

   An untrustworthy person 

An Apology to My Fingertips

To my fingertips, 

I’m sorry.  I’m sorry that I bite and gnaw at you when I’m feeling bored or nervous.  I’m sorry that I pick and chew at you until you bleed.  I’m sorry that I rip the scabs from your body only for the bleeding to start again.  

My constant grooming of you bothers me too.  I think its gross and quite painful, but unfortunately I can’t seem to stop.  Is it satisfactory? Rarely.  Most times when I pull the skin back from your shoulders, I am only left with the remnants of more skin to be pulled.  The satisfaction of a clean, concise tear of the skin, that leaves behind no excess flesh is rare indeed.  

I even bought special clippers, you know, the ones they use on you at the nail salon? Yes, those.  Those nail clippers that can get each and every little bit of skin that my large front teeth can’t seem to reach.  Even with those fancy clippers, I can’t help but get over excited with my clipping and clip just a little to much, causing the skin to break, and blood to flow.  You are so raw and tender to the touch, I can hardly bare to look at you. 

Yet, even while I’m writing this apology to you, at every pause in thought, at every punctuation marked, I look back to you and begin to pick, pick, pick.  So, while I’m saying I’m sorry, with a heavy heart, I cannot promise that I will stop. For I find you at my teeth before I have had the chance to think about the pain I am causing you.  Before I have had the chance to think of the pain I am causing myself.  Because something about that biting and picking is comforting to me. 

My apologies, 

Madison 

A Letter To The Restless Girls

To the restless girls, 

I see you fidgeting in the classroom waiting for the bell to ring.  I know what it feels like to lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything to happen.  I’ve heard the thoughts of self doubt and excitement run through your mind because they have run through mine too.  I know what it feels like to want to grow up now, to have your life together and be done with the pains that being young demands.  I feel your pain of wanting, of wanting that person to notice you, of wanting everyone to know your name, of wanting to change the world and wanting to be invisible all at the same time.  To those restless girls, to those restless kids, I feel stuck just like you do.  I feel the weight of time pass me by as I stand in the same spot, unmoving.  I know the frustration of feeling bigger than your body, but not knowing what to do with the emotion.  I feel that desire to create, to talk, to dance, to sing, but thinking that I don’t have the ability to do so.  That I don’t have anything interesting to create, or anything new to add to the conversation.  That I’m not a good enough singer or dancer or writer.  I feel just as scared as you do that everything has already been done.  That I’m already washed up when I haven’t even gotten the chance to start.  I know all these feelings because I’m a restless girl too. Boredom and anxiety seem to rule my mind, all I seem to do is sleep and watch.  I don’t act.  I was never taught to act, but how to observe.  Is that the same for you? I watch these boys play loud music, push to the front, move their bodies with zero inhibitions, and I crave what they have.  I crave their ability to push, to move without worry if their dress is hiked up or if their bra is showing.  Restless boys do reckless things, while me, a restless girl, sits in her room and observes the world.  Do you feel the same way? 

Madison