There is a love story between me and myself,
between my mother and I,
between my (possible) daughter and I
The story is a work in progress
Yesterday my mom sent a photo of me when I was less than a year old, lying on my baby blanket, face bunched up and grinning with that infectious, side-splitting laughter singular to infants who have just discovered humor. She wrote, “the very first time you started to crack up laughing as a baby! You were just busting up and thought whatever it was, was soooo funny!”. I took another look at the photo. Hot tears welled up, my throat tightened, catching me off guard.
It’s not the first time seeing my own baby pictures has made me emotional. I can’t pinpoint why the simple evidence of my younger self brings up this acidic cocktail of love, pity, heartbreak, regret, shame, and guilt.
Guilt, mostly.
Guilt, because that baby had no idea what was coming (as none do). Sure, there are the things she’d see and ways she’d have to grow up before she was ready; but most painful are the things she would put herself through – the abuse she would inflict on herself. I think about that little baby, safe and loved and happy as a clam, and I picture her enduring the ludicrous rigors that I have volunteered for in an effort to feel good enough. It kills me to envision treating that baby the way I treat myself. My mother would kill me if she knew I treated her daughter that way.
Despite the compassion I have for the baby in that photo, I’ve been a merciless tyrant to that same body and mind as an adult. When she defies me with emotion, forgetfulness, appetite, imperfection, I punish liberally. I’ve deprecated her into a fine dust, and that dust is still too grainy for my liking.
There are, however, elusive instances when the curtains are drawn and I’m alone in bed or sat in my car and waves of remorse pulse through me. She who has been there with me from the very beginning — who has cried with me and sang with me and sweat and bled and laughed and loved with me — who has continued to work for me tirelessly despite the absurd demands I’ve placed on her.
I’ll undress and observe my sturdy legs, thick with muscle and covered in scars, scrapes, bruises. We’ve climbed countless hills together. I’ll feel my abdomen and apologize for the countless nights I’ve made her fall asleep on empty. I’ll run my hands up and down my scarred arms and tell them I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to every inch of me that has sopped up my murky hatred like a sponge on filthy floors.
The one thing I will have so long as I live. The vessel that carries me through and allows me to access any little bit of human joy and will someday be lowered into the ground to be absorbed by the earth. I’m so fucking sorry. How could I allow this? I’m sorry that care and compassion has not been my default.
It’s just been us the last 23 years. 23 years is not very long, according to everyone else. If we’re lucky, the best and worst is yet to come. Let’s you and I be on the same team. I am your only caretaker, as long as your heart beats. You are mine. A caretaker that does not at least like you is no caretaker at all.
Sofia, You are a beautiful daughter of a Heavenly Father who loves you. You are strong and passionate. Your voice is so needed about what we think of our bodies. Be kind to yourself always. I love your family and they love you. You make a difference in the world.
Awesome! It’s all good – and you’re great!
Love ya,
Jorge (your uncle)
This is so beautiful Sofia I love you so much thank you for sharing your writing with us ♥️
You’re blessed with a gift of thought and words and to be able to express them so openly is wonderful. We are all our hardest critics. It shouldn’t be that way. We should be humble, but also our biggest advocate. No one else knows us better. No one else will advocate better. Be kind. Love. Be positive. Be real. To you.