For three years and five days I ran three miles a day five days a week. I tortured my core for limitless hours on end. I ate only that which helped me to push on that next bit more.
But one day I woke up and laid back down. I began to run my hand over my body, feeling all the still lingering imperfections that I remember so badly wanting to sort out: the stretch marks under my arm and around my waist; the little folds of skin that wouldn't tighten; the little bumps and non-discursive lines that form my backside and middle; the cuts and bruises; the acne.
I realized lying there that I had denied myself a grace of accepting that these are MY imperfections. No one else but me can appreciate them. They can define no one but me. They are my mementos, my reminders, my battle scars. I should not try to amend them when it poses no real healthful benefit, nor hide from them. They are earned, and I earned them willingly. I shame my memory and lessons learned as I try to liberate myself from myself in a most abusive way.
And so as the first bright rays of light peeked in between my shutters, I stretched, and laid back down, knowing that for the first time in many years on a Tuesday morning, I am going to be ok.