Post Two.

Beginning again is never easy.
Only this time, I feel like 'beginning' is not the right word.
I'm in the midst of a lifelong journey, the beginning has already happened.
I'm in a new chapter.
One that seems rightly repetitive.
Hurt. Grieve. Learn. Heal. Repeat.
I've made a lot of big changes in my life, I'm sure I'll talk about those in future posts.
But today, I want to talk about the one that has weighed the most on me these last few months.
My body.
Two words.
But those two words hold so much pain in them.
My body was never good enough, from the beginning.
I was the girl with the chubby cheeks, happy smile that stretched just a little too wide and showed a little gap in my front teeth (pre-braces of course).
I was the girl that looked 3 grades older than she actually was, and stood in the back with the boys during the school photo because I was too tall to stand with the girls.
I was the girl that her dad worried about her being proportionate growing up, her mom pinched her stomach in fitting rooms and sighed.
I was the girl whose brothers oinked at her at the table, whose dad strapped candy wrappers to her legs after Christmas and joked that 'a moment on the lips forever on the hips'.
I was the girl who couldn't get away from her mothers opinion of her too squishy body.
I was the girl who just couldn't get it right.
Even though that's how my body was, and logically, nothing was wrong with it.
Growing up with that led me to be another girl.
I was the girl whose body wasn't her own, whose self-concept never developed fully because it didn't matter what she thought... only what they though.
I was the girl who didn't have any boundaries, mom pinching my stomach led to boys pinching my butt, my body was not mine to claim, but was mine to mourn and let others label it's parts as good or bad.
I was the girl who took any positive, because my body was starved for affection.
I was the girl who turned a blind eye to the pushiness of men, because it meant that they could look past the squish and the height... it meant they accepted me, didn't it?
I was the girl who couldn't say no, who froze because her body wasn't her own to claim, and let others violently stake their territory.
I was the girl who lost all ownership of herself, because he said it was his to manipulate at his will, whenever and wherever he wanted.
I was the girl who got up off that bed, and showered... refusing to cry lest he hear it in the next room and do something about it.
I am that girl, that realizes all this. My body never was my own. It was the reason for my pain. The reason they couldn't love me. The reason those men wanted to use me. I've hated my body with so much zeal that I've wanted to harm it.
That's hard to admit.
I've wanted to punish it.
I know I should love it.
And sometimes I feel glimpses of that feeling, so I know I can get there at some point.
But today, I need to grieve it.
Grieve the relationship I never had with my body.
Grieve that it's had to bear so much, and has done a good job protecting my spirit.
I need to give it a vacation from self loathing.
I want to heal it. I want to heal my relationship with it.
I want to one with my body.
I feel gross.
I've put back on weight.
I just broke up with my boyfriend.
I feel broken because of my injury (also a future post).
I feel stuck.
But it's not my body's fault.
And if I am to move on at all, I need to see that.
I need to love it. Pray for it. Connect with it.
I need to take back ownership of it.
My body.
Emphasis on 'my'.