Look at my knees and you will see the nature of my childhood: Unrestrained, Powerful, Accomplished.
I remember reaching that age of angst, of being made aware, of becoming disgusted by my knees, the layers of scars, of puckered wrinkled flesh. I suppose that at twelve it would have been helpful to have understood the catty meanness of the locker room, that it wasn’t personal, I was just an easy target in my naivety.
Instead, what should have been badges of honor for mountains climbed, feats of daring accomplished, reminders of the power of a young body able to run like the wind, climb, soar, jump, and fly across obstacles, became objects of scorn, needing to be hidden, for they marred my attractiveness, my desirability by the beautiful people.
So I changed, my body became something to be despised, rejected, tamed. I let others determine it’s appearance, worth, and use. The more I let others determine its value, the less essential it was to my sense of self, and once my body was no longer an intrinsic part of my being, I stopped caring for it.
Thus in my rebellion against the forces of oppression I created to excuse my distressing neglect, I lost. Soon though, it must be determined once and for all, whether I have lost just many major and extended battles, or the war in toto.
Is it too late to declare a truce, and reunite, to once again become body and soul?