I have been scared of my body. How it has reacted to my lack of attention, what I see when I look in the mirror, how it feels within the confines of my clothes. What I am becoming. I am scared by these things, yet I know they aren’t real. My conscience knows the difference. I know that what I see is not me, because ‘me’ doesn’t exist. I compare myself to how I was last year. In my mind, last year I was better. I was thinner, I was more talented, and, more importantly, I was loved. Loved by someone who wasn’t my mother or father. Therefore, I could place the responsibility of loving me onto him and focus on other things. He was more than happy to do it, and was gentle with that self-love that I had given to him. He took it with cupped hands, stroked it with delicate fingers, listened to it breathe. And I thought that was how it should be. And I thought that was ok. But when he left, he took that love with him, forgetting that he had packed it away in his bags, that he had stuffed in the pocket of his other jacket, and I lost it. It was nestled in his suitcase between his socks and underwear, in the lining of the shirt he wore when we went to dinner in the garden, clinging to the bottoms of his favorite shoes. I know they are being worn right now, those shoes. And with each step he leaves a little bit of my forgotten love – the love I entrusted to him and the love that I cherished so much – in the grass and the pavement, in the coffee shops and the stores, in the classrooms and the dorm rooms. And for a while I thought that that was fine. And I thought that was ok. But then I began to realize that that delicate thing I had given to him was not so delicate after all. It was strong. It had weight. It kept me upright. In the following months I would be knocked over. Knocked over by guilt, the decisions I was making, and how I dealt with the world around me. And it was hard. I realized this absence in the bottom of my gut, in the soles of my feet, in the tips of my fingers. The lightest breeze on a warm spring day could blow me for miles until I sank to the ground again. I was embarrassed that I had given it away so quickly, so easily. Feeling ashamed of my immaturity, ashamed of how unlike me I had acted. With time, I began to accept what I had done and I decided that I needed to start from scratch. I began sculpting with hollow hands a new self-love. A new way of thinking about myself. A new weight for my light shoulders. But this make-shift stand in would only last until the next breeze came sweeping through the plain of my existence. I would try my hardest to secure it into myself as I watched the grasses and trees ahead of me whip around and rustle violently, but it would always be too late. So I am still learning. Still finding the flaws, patching them up. Still perfecting my craft. This focus on restoring love within myself has transformed me into a new person that I would not recognize if I were transported back a year ago. Just as no one would. That boy I gave my love to would not receive it again, though he took better care of it than I did. Because he is a different person now. He has collected more stories, looked into more eyes, kept more love in his coat pocket. And I know he his happy, this new person. He is happy that he has had the chance to be created from the ashes of another. He feels lucky to be alive. And I am happy for him. That is where I am trying to be, though this change is easier for him. When placed in a new environment, it is easier to sculpt. More hands can help. More eyes can see. More voices can criticize. There are no arms reaching to take his love back for themselves again. But here, as I sit with myself, the hands of my family, of my friends, and of who I used to be reach for who I was. Their hands go to the bottom of my gut, to the soles of my feet, to the tips of my fingers. Their hands pat around in those places, like they’re looking for lost keys under their beds. And they turn to me and tell me I drove the car last. They ask me where the keys are. And I say that I don’t know. But I tell them I will get a replica, and I won’t lose them next time. I won’t lend them out. And they know that is a lie. But they say ok. After being estranged from my body for a period of time, I am more willing to get to know it, to sit with it, to listen to it, to talk to it. And though I know more about my insides, I am still scared to dive in deep. I am scared that I don’t actually know anything. That I will find parts of myself that do not seem like they belong to me. But I am learning. I am learning to treat myself with respect and kindness and love. I am learning that I make mistakes and that that is something everyone has done. I am learning that I am not strong enough to hold the hearts of all of my friends. I am courting myself, asking myself how I feel about things that I am doing, the decisions I am making. Wondering what will be the defining moment of my life, what my faults are, what I love. Above all else, I am learning and I am growing. And it is hard. And I know that is ok.
delaney rose 