What a wasted life, those hours, days, weeks, years she spent pulling desperately at every inch and tugging at every corner of this precious house she calls a body. Too broad (shoulders), too fine (hair), too flat (chest), too FAT. Always, above all, too fat. This body that she analysed and scrutinised and then dismissed and mistreated and was desperate to get away from. Wanted to claw out of, so consumed by her hatred of it that it stopped her living her life. That it made her behave in sad, ridiculous ways.
The body that she finally, eventually came to see works so hard every second just to give her life, to keep her breathing, to allow her memories, experiences and love. That she rewarded for so long only with loathing, betrayal, an all-consuming wish to have another. Any other.
That woman there now, she isn’t perfect, but she’s healthy and happy and cherishes this body that has protected her and served her faithfully for all these years without question. Every curve, every scar, every line, every soft pocket and odd blemish. Perfect imperfections that make it lived in; full of so many stories that make it what it is. Stories that make it home. Like walking through your parents’ front door after a few months away. Comfortable. Familiar. Safe. Hers.
And that foreign object on her hip – we should probably talk about that. The sterile object that makes people notice as she walks by. That is the mark of life, of a battle fought every day, of peace now, because that weird looking thing lets her run and play and laugh and breathe easily, because it takes care of so much for her because her pancreas does not.
She is proud of that weird white box now. She is proud of that body now. Because she and they may not be perfect, but she is healthy and she is alive.