body checking— a poem by zoe frenchman

i stare at myself, and i stare and i stare, and i exceedingly care;

when i stare and i stare, it’s a strange nightmare;

i stare and i stare and i can identify some flaw on my body or my face in everything that i wear;

i stare and i stare and i care too much and it’s not fair;

it’s not fair that i was cursed with this debilitating illness that is utterly treacherous to bear;

sometimes i feel as if my ailments are beyond repair;

i nitpick every blemish, imperfection, and scar;

and the cognitive distortions enhance each one by far;

and each fictitious malformation is equally bizarre;

sometimes the constant fixation of my flaws;

and these absurdly false deformities, are the cause;

of my emotional outbursts and episodes of doubt;

sometimes my insecurities deter me from merely going out;

i cant go out, because the mascara is smudged around my face;

i cry an awful lot, but in this case;

i was so unstable and weak that i couldn’t help but weep;

sometimes i wish i wouldn’t fall in so deep;

deep into the pit of darkness, self-criticism, and fear;

sometimes i wish everything wasn’t so painfully severe;

i stare at my thighs, and i think they’re too thick;

i stare at my face and each pimple or blemish makes me sick;

i stare at my hair and it’s too frizzy, too wild, there’s too many baby hairs, it’s this, it’s that, and i nitpick;

my mind truly races so quick;

i stare at my stomach— it’s too stubby, it’s too large, it’s not flat enough, i look bloated, i should skip yet another meal today to compensate for my perception of my torso, yeah, that should do the trick;

i stare at my body to the point deliberate restriction;

and what i find to be sad;

and this is crucial to add;

is that the rational part of me is aware that the irrational part of me creates all of these excruciating ideas in my brain which are undoubtedly fiction;

not to mention the constant friction;

within myself and this relentless internal contradiction;

i hope and i pray that i get to see the day;

that this pain will at least begin to fade away;

the day that i don’t worry how many calories i ate each day;

the day that i don’t stare at myself with the upmost disgust;

the day that i begin to trust;

and that trust must begin within my own mind;

i hope i see the day that i can remotely unwind;

i hope i see the day that i can abolish the brutal memories of all the times that i have self-maligned;

most importantly, i hope i have the pleasure of absorbing the day;

that i can let go of the need for perfection, and i can accept myself, be as it may;

i’ve always had this desire to be “pretty”;

but i think i’ve really just wished to ensure that i’m skinny—without any pity;

i guess i would rather always feel excessively shitty;

than take a step back and process my life;

process certain methods in avoiding both internal and external strife;

i’ve been self-destructive for as long as i can recall;

but my most prominent self-destructive behavior of all;

is the overall betrayal of my own body as whole;

as i have neglected to care for it, and when i was in pain, and i was hurt in my soul;

i damaged it, and now the damage is out of much of my control.