You and I are barely on speaking terms most of the time. Unlike most people I’ve seen speak about their breasts, I want you to be smaller. Much smaller. Invisible, even. From the time I was seven and you started growing we’ve been at war. I realized at that point that in a few short years that, to society, I would only be worth the size of you, the size of my belly, the ability to produce more people for the world to ruin; not valued for the distance I could climb a tree, the mud I could gather and smear, the distance I could jump on my bike, the bugs I could get my sister to eat. I have been trying to love you and accept your size and shape but each time I look at you, I can’t help but feel resentment that I was born a girl when sometimes I wish I was born a boy. And I’m sorry for that because most of the time I’m happy to be able to call myself a woman; it’s just that sometimes I prefer to be called a man and I will never truly get to be a man. So, I’m sorry. We will work on trying not to oppress each other and maybe eventually come to love each other with time, I hope.
It’s no secret that I’ve never been able to really love you for who you are. At least, it’s no secret to you and me and people who really know us. And it’s no secret that I have never been able to accept you for the shape that you are, even when I had starved myself to the point of being a walking skeleton and still craved to be thinner. Sometimes I think that you would be better off without me but then it’s a silly thought, isn’t it, because we’re tied together and can’t leave each other. So we hold onto this abusive relationship and try couples’ therapy but it only goes so far. I’m sick, I know. And you’re not, I know. I’m sorry. There’s no way for you to be what I want you to be because I have unrealistic expectations and will probably never be able to fully accept you. But I’m trying. Writing about my feelings and thoughts about you helps; it lets me deal with my demons without taking it out on you. I desperately hope that eventually I won’t struggle with these obsessions of thinness but until then all I can do is apologize.
You’re the part of me that I can never hide. You’re always there and people always make judgements about you and your crooked teeth, imperfect skin, and scars. But, I think, of all my body parts, I love you the most (don’t tell the others; they’ll get jealous). You’re the part of me that, while I wish I could make your skin less red and itchy and full of acne, I usually don’t feel self-conscious about. Which is pretty amazing, considering the issues I have with your brothers and sisters. So, dear face, don’t change. I love you.
I know that we’re not on the best of terms and I do apologize for that. I go between loving and hating you, between wishing you were smaller and accepting you for what you are. We have our issues but I think we’re coming to terms with each other. I’m not exactly sure what to say to you, other than I’m working on it.
Dear vulva, vagina, ovaries, and uterus,
Most of the time I pretend you don’t exist. Most of the time I wish you didn’t exist, especially you, uterus, but I’m trying to work on that. I’m trying to accept you and work on maybe one day being able to say I love you (but you, uterus; you’re abusive and cause me nothing but pain, I wish that you would just go away). All I can really say is that I’m sorry for the abuses that you have suffered and I wish I could have prevented the assaults and molestations but there wasn’t anything I could do that I hadn’t already done. It’s taken years to get to the point where I no longer blame myself for that so I think that it’s an important step in our relationship.
Dear arms and hands:
I love you. You’re perfect. Don’t change.
Dear legs and feet:
I also love you. There are some things that you know I wish I could change about you but I love how big my leg muscles are and how arched my feet are. I’m happy that you’re my feet and legs.
I’m sorry that we fight so much and that I will probably never be able to accept you as who you are, with all your flaws and beautiful scars. I must apologize for all the times I’ve told myself, even with ribs sticking out and so thin, that you would be better if only you could become skinnier. There were times when I think I would have died for that, for that small, impossible thinness and I’m sorry; I’m working on trying to love you for who you are and not what my fucked up mind wants you to be. But it’s hard and I’m not sure if we’ll ever get to that point. If it was possible, I would give you to someone who would love you more and better than I ever could. But I can’t and I’m sorry.
This post was inspired by this poem: