Why Am I Still Here

To be in my body is to wake each morning under almost unbearable gravity – a leaden blanket of my own weight fighting to rise or move. My spine is an electrical center overloaded with messages, scrambling non-pain pulses with pain pulses, only to be sent along without editing. I'm overweight according all metrics, most crucially, my own. As I roll towards the edge of the bed, my stomach spills over the edge of my underwear and the weight of my breasts fall against one another like two newborns on my sternum.

My first thoughts of the day are ones of shame and frustration. Despite all efforts to ignore the body in favor of strengthening or soothing the mind, no relief comes from this suffering I've sealed myself within – no forgetfulness of the body – no signs of beauty overcoming the faulty wiring I've either inherited or twisted together myself.

To get dressed is put on clothing I don't like. Threads don't stretch enough. Bra bands dig into my ribs. In the mirror I can see grooves where the straps have rested on my shoulders for decades. Maybe that is a link to my affinity for donkeys. In Kenya, these animals bore the brunt of unspeakable abuse and terrible work loads. Their faces and backs show the wear of the leather harness, deep grooves unnaturally marring a landscape without choice. It feels that way sometimes. Most times.

I look back at pictures of myself a teen, as a young woman, and even as a young mother. I was so beautiful and yet I never once knew or felt it; I never once didn't feel like an imposter in this world of bodies.

Well, there were a few times when I knew and owned a beauty reflected into my unhealed existence. Perhaps this is why I am still here. And so are you.