It is not by any drastic self-harm.
It is a natural part of the process.
My appetite is less. My body is less.
I am no longer nursing, and my milk is gone.
It's time to get out my little bras again.
I don't want to though. I want to give them away to a teenage girl.
They remind me of another time, and I don't want to go backwards.
I want to find new things to fit this 33 year-old self.
I crave clothes I can move in, live in and wear loosely.
I want to retain this substance, if not in my flesh, somehow...
I am becoming the functional woman I swore I'd never be.
My 25 year old self would look at women like me with pity.
"She used to be so edgy and now life has worn her down. Look at her pushing that stroller in those tennis shoes. Not me. I am not going to let that happen."
Now I understand, it is not giving up.
I realize those sharp edges to be a needless arrangement.
They are one more thing I get to shuck by the road side to walk lighter.
But when I'm scared, I want those identities back.
I am going to Lake Powell in 3 weeks.
Bikinis. All day every day.
Mine is hot pink.
The other one is hot orange...if that's possible.
I am not my bikini.
But I think I am.
It is easy to be loose in flip 'n' flops and a sundress.
In a bikini my awareness heightens.
And I am suddenly ashamed of the fact that my stomach has carried three babies inside of it.
Also of the fact that I will be surrounded by women younger than me.
Women who have never had their stomachs stretched to this point.
Sarah - step into this self.
Own those babies.
You do not need that fortress.
You have nothing to be ashamed of...not even that soft place.
These are those self-affirmations which never work.
I'm sure sometimes I will go back into that ice house.
I will think myself safe.
Then I'll look around and realize, I am alone.
I will walk back out.
I will just be Sarah.
This is the best I can hope for.
| Not me at all... |
 |
| actual me |
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