That Crazy Thing I Keep Doing

Today I was feeling sorry for myself because I am short and fat and some things are hard to do when one is short and fat. And I thought that maybe being short and fat would indirectly lead to losing a job I am doing, a job I happen to enjoy both for the challenge and for the atmosphere. And I worried myself into a stomach ache, and maybe grew a little ulcer in my aching stomach, and then all of the worry was suddenly washed away by a few words of praise from someone who, incidentally, reminds me very much of you. And I thought what a silly thing it was to worry about, that being short and fat and a little slower than a gym bunny does not invalidate how good I am at my job, and I could practically hear you in my ear chiding me to give myself a little more credit. And I missed you so much and I wished I could call you to tell you that I was feeling insecure so that you could tell me to shut up and be the strong woman we all know I am. And I still miss you.

Today I told M--- about that crazy thing I keep doing. It was an accident, telling her; she had my phone because I was showing her the picture of ducks I took this morning (no less that 25 beautiful green and grey Mallards leading the way through the parking lot!). And she started flicking through the photos, past the butterfly/moth hybrid I found yesterday (who stubbornly refused to open his wings so I could capture the full glory and curiousness of his existence). And then I realized she was about to land on that picture, the one that twists my gut in knots of sick anticipation, the one I cannot look away from once I land there, and I had to warn her to stop. And I could think of no clever excuse, and anyway, my cleverness is more like blurting, and so I blurted.

She looked dismayed -- that is the best word for her facial expression: dismay. So I fumbled to explain, but there really are no good words to make her understand how I need that photographic evidence, how it anchors me to this path of grief that every cell in my body is rising up against. Every trick my mind can think to play on me, to convince me that it was all a dream, a hoax, a terrible misunderstanding, is waylaid by that single image. I need to see it, because if I don't I will never believe it, and if I never believe it I will never let go of this heaviness in the core of my being. For the mind has a million tricks and machinations, but the body is not fooled. The body holds every sadness in a knot at its center, waiting for the mind to acknowledge and unravel it. When I look at your eyes, they might almost be sleeping, and each time I feel a tiny thread untangle and drift away from me. It is crazy to do this, it causes dismay in the minds of those who do not understand, but it is as necessary as breathing, so I will not stop until I find a different way to breathe.