it is quite extraordinary that i've thought all this time that i was the enlightened one, that most "others" had no idea what it was to be one with the universe, to feel yourself whirling round in the mind of god. how wrong. what hubris. and what fear, thinking believing that everything spiritual in me could be explained away with my disease.
"To perceive oneself as one with everything is to directly experience the flow of divine abundance that holds everything together." --Cynthia Bourgeault
i'm neither alone nor rare. do i whirl faster and burn orange when i'm manic? yes. but that doesn't mean that my experiences aren't real. they are. they always have been.
when we were in high school in our "recreational games" class, laura mooney and I always made quite a show of cheating out loud at Rook. clues like "Louis XIV." ha.
i'm wearing the hat of a guy who hung out with us a while. he was a military man. he couldn't tell us what he did. we joked that he was a spy. then one day he told us, i'm not a spy. but many of the people i work for are.
but it will never do this. nothing can do this. what a slim pretty sexy desperate girl. so miserable. probably already drunk in this photograph. wanting needing touch love approval. tell me i'm pretty tell me i'm beautiful tell me i'm okay tell me you love me please please love.
how sad that after years and years of therapy i still haven't gotten beyond the thing the image the flesh. i still touch up my photos. please make her look better. please hide the flaws.
when is it okay to say okay. enough. i am lucky lucky blessed blessed. this body works. it still moves. and smiles. and has orgasms. it still opens its mouth for love for water for oranges for the host. it is in pain every day. but it is not in constant pain. when is it okay to let go the face the obsession the body the face when will i let go the please tell me i'm pretty please tell me i look thirty-five?
yes. yes. i've had all the talk talk and the group talk and i've read all the books and i've said i look good you look good see how pretty you are and shattered my scale with a hammer and yes i have accepted my body as it is i have loved it have curled my hand around its belly what a comfort that belly.
then moved on to you're not that fat really you are not that fat you could be fatter then moved on to really you're a child of god he doesn't care your fat chin your thirty-two bellies really your dog couldn't care less your fleshy mounds of fleshy fat you'd feel a hell of a lot one fucking hell of a lot better if you weren't fat.
good god you are so fat.
actually, my body doesn't bother me so much as it once did. but there's this "i deserve love"--the first on a list of positive core beliefs, that makes me shrink and squirm and scurry away. there's that hard little nut of shame that persists.
this is why perfectly empirically beautifully women do cut up their faces and sometimes no one can tell but more often we can all tell and we fault them for their desperation we wonder why they would cut up tuck up stitch up something so lovely.
they do it because their livelihood their careers are dependent upon their faces. and there's where i'm really lucky. i never had to do that. oh i wanted it. i wanted to be that beautiful. and because my parents never told me i could be anything else i pored over every fashion magazine i knew the names of all the models i knew good bones and i was just pretty enough to dream of being discovered and made up to perfection. how very lucky i was not born beautiful.
and how very sad how unfair the advantages of the lovely. the gorgeous. how many woman singers are out there who will never see the stage because they are not lovely. how many more girls will believe as i did that the tops of your thighs should never rub together your hip bones should jut out sharp such sharp bones never a hint of fat baby or otherwise around your belly. laura mooney told me that it was normal for my thighs to touch because i was a woman. maybe if i hadn't been pretty i would have listened to her. but i was pretty. that drop of prettiness. one drop of red in the cup of vinegar water and this egg is pink. it's a girl.