Your body is a temple.
It’s one of the first tenets of eating disorder treatment. Your body is a god damn motherfucking temple. You need to treat it well; you need to feed it so it can function to its fullest potential. You need to take care of it. Your body does not take care of you. Why would you take care of your body? You betrayed your body.
Your body betrayed you.
There’s no connection, between you and your body. Why would there be? It does not belong to you. It never did. It was never yours. It is a thing that gets you from point a to point b and back again, a thing that allows you to work, to exist. But it’s not yours. Your body is everywhere and anywhere and some days you hate it so much that you can’t sit with it, you can’t be comfortable in it. You run and you run, day in, day out, but you cannot shed it. You cannot have a new body. You can’t have a body that belongs to you. This body is not yours. It is not yours.
Whose is it, exactly?
Your body belongs to the men who took you. You could never control that, them, it. You could never control anything. They still have your body. You’re a ghost; you’re a shell; you exist; you do not really exist. You are a soul without a home.
Your body is a placeholder.
You can’t get out of yourself. You can’t move. You are stuck here. Your body is not yours; it’s disgusting, the idea of so many others inside it. You were weak; your body
was is weak. You are your body; you aren’t your body. You cannot make it yours when what was yours is forever altered. Destroyed. Dirty. You are dirty. And you can’t run away because you’re trapped inside this body that is not yours, that will never be yours. You scrub and you can’t get it off. You’re doing okay, but then you’re not. You will always go back. You cannot get rid of it, this body, this disgusting body.
Your body will never be clean.
You close your body off to a world that doesn’t want it. You shut it down, slowly, line by line, item by item, piece by piece. You can’t swallow; you can’t breathe. You can’t take care of a temple that belongs to someone else. You could burn this all down and not look back. Your body is a map that you can’t change, with too many stories to tell. Stories of other people. Stories that hurt, that fester, that creep up on you when you don’t expect it. Your heart is vacant. You cannot rebuild it. You can give it to other people, but not yourself.
All your body tried to do was exist.
Your body is you. You are your body; you’re not your body because it will never be yours. You don’t want to be your body, not this body, not this. You stomp it down and you play at existence, and when you’re hurting you push it away and you wish that it would implode. You cannot pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore. You cannot meet everybody’s expectations. You cannot be the person that they want you to be, that they need you to be, when your body is not yours, not really, not ever.
Your body is ravaged.
You can label, body part by body part, the places that were touched, changed. Destroyed. You can give some a name, others you can’t. You can list all of the ways your body failed you because it’s easier than talking about how you failed your body. It wasn’t you that let this happen. It was your body. You need something to hate. It can’t be you. It has to be the body. It has to be. This hurts too much to think about. You want to hold on, to be better, to not have this body, not this one, give you something different, something else, anything else. You want to be better. You want to understand, but you don’t know how. You want to grab the life ring, but you don’t know how. You can’t control your body anymore than you can control what happened to it, because you don’t know how. You don’t know the why of everything, the reason, and you need that. You need that to understand your body. You want to understand your body, but you also don’t.
Your body is a horror show on display for everyone to see.
You want someone to tell you that it’s okay. That it wasn’t your fault. To keep telling you, reminding you, every day, because you forget, a lot, because you have to live in this body that carries the weight of every single one of those faults. You are constantly reminded of everything you your body did. You need all of this to go away. Your honesty is all you have. The devastation that you will never fit the normal bounds of living or have a body not exploited, a body not stained with the traces of every hand that ever touched it that wasn’t yours. You do not stain your own body. No, no. You do not touch it. You. Do. Not. Touch. It. If you leave it, maybe, the stain will fade.
No more dirt. No more map. No more stains.