Skeleton

I woke up at 4am to write this and then fell asleep pressing the space bar.

I lay in bed at night and make sure I can still feel my hip bones.

I look in the mirror in the morning and lean over to see my ribs. 

I berate myself on how- if I can see bone- can there still be curves and a stomach and thighs and a butt?

Why do I find my skeleton the most important part of me? 

Why have I attached myself to the idea that the bones that were made to be inside my body should be in the reverse? 

I got so excited when I got the flu when I was younger because as I saw the numbers on my mother’s bathroom scale go down, I realized I could be more like my classmates.

Not eating never worked for me. Though I guess it never really works for anyone in the long term.

I don’t know why my brain continues to hang onto these thoughts even after years and years of attempted deprogramming. It seems like I may be too big a fan of Halloween if I want to wear the Mr. Bones costume around all the time.

The truth is that the bones in my body are good, but only because they support the interesting parts of me.

My stomach- that can brace to lift weights and balance in yoga poses but can still be a pillow for my dog Dave when he’s sleepy.

My arms- that can carry more than I ever wanted to have to carry when it all gets too heavy on in my brain.

My butt- that cushions my falls and dances with my friends.

All these soft spots I grew up hating, fearing. I was so scared I would develop soft spots, and in many ways, I still am. Scared enough to spiral about it, scared enough to doubt myself, scared enough to struggle with eating sometimes. Scared enough that even when I’m alone, when no one is there to see of judge or comment, I still check to feel those hip bones. Because maybe then would the harpy-esque voice in my brain quiet down.

“See? I’ve shown you bone. All is not lost. Are you proud?” and I say back to myself, “never” .

…

Well.

“Never is a rather definitive answer,” I reply, 

“and It will always be,” I say back. I’m talking to my reflection, but my face in the mirror is warped- she’s angry at me when she doesn’t realize she’s angry at herself. She’s angry at the world without realizing that she is not being controlled by it. She is scared, she is lonely, and she is so so confused about what people want from her. So for now, she holds on to the driving wheel, desperately trying not to crash. Because those bones are the only thing she can feel that tells her definitively that she is doing a good job. “Please,” she begs, “can’t you see I’m trying my best?”

—

I am afraid of softness. I am afraid of the soft matter of my brain learning to love and trust and enjoy. I am afraid of the soft matter of my lungs learning to breathe deep an air that is uncertain. And I am afraid of my heart, so soft. If something this soft can hurt so much, surely something hard wouldn’t do the same.

I hide in the pursuit of sharpness to avoid the softness. I’m trying differently. I’m trying to recognize the joy in my body and the knowledge in my mind, and the love in my heart. To stop being so sure that the sharp parts of me are the only parts that make sense.

Because, after all, soft things will always hurt the most, especially when the hard bits come into contact with them. But that’s what happens when you feel- the soft is allowed to be hurt, to take the punches, to bounce back- that’s why it’s soft in the first place.

—

I guess this is a poetic way of saying: “Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me” - Rhianna.