This is surprisingly hard to start. Usually I just write a sentence and go from there. But there’s so much here, that it feels almost impossible. There’s so much history. You’ve been there, through everything. Before I knew who I was, or what it was to be alive, you were there. You were me before I was my mind. Weird, right?
You do everything right. I’m the one who messes things up.
You let me move and walk and breathe and taste and experience pleasure and color and everything. You hardly ever falter.
You must be baffled by me. I’m always telling you you’re not good enough, and here you are, doing everything you need to. You must be thinking, “What does she want from me?”
I get frustrated with you for not fitting random aesthetic standards that you have no good reason to fit. Once, I held you down and tried to cut off your nose. That was incredibly mean of me.
I try to deny you your history. It’s ironic, really, especially because so many Jews who were killed had your features. The nose that I’ve hated, the long, ovaled face with the pale, pale skin. Dark, round eyes, heavy brows. It’s a face at the heart of the faces on the posters. A face that sometimes had no one to defend it. And here I am, safe, but punishing it of my own volition.
I realize that I want to look more normal, even though there is hardly any such thing. It’s your differences that I pick on. Even though your differences are your signature. They are your trademark. They are your evolutionary, genetic fingerprint. They are who you are.
I’m sorry for how easily I condemn you. I hope you understand that I am trying to change. I am trying to get to know you better. I am learning your beauty and your strength. Maybe we can work together more in the future?
The buried truth is, I love you. I’m like a stereotype of a guy from the fifties in a suit; I don’t know how to show love in the right ways sometimes. I need you more than anything. I know it, but I’m able to push it aside. I repress. I conceal. I let myself forget a little. But it’s there. Real respect and admiration. Real trust. You are, after all, amazing. Astounding. Beyond belief. Maybe that’s part of it. Maybe that’s part of why it’s easier to stay fretting on the surface. Because you are incomprehensibly magnificent. Nothing I’ve learned has enabled me to understand you. I should be in endless awe, and instead I’m complaining about the fact that your shoulders don’t have enough definition.
Anyway, thank you. You’ve put up with a lot and you’re still there for me. I want you to know that I’m here for you too. Really, I am.
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Un-roast: Today I love the way I look in a mirror at the end of a long hall. I can see my frame. My whole look. I look compact, cute, and lively. I look like I might do a little jump at any moment.
New post about intelligence, and why it’s stupid, at Un-schooled.
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