I'm sorry

Dear you,

My nutritionist told me to write a letter to my body. She said, "I know it sounds cheesy, but, it really does help some people." She wears long, flowy and gentle outfits. She's given me a meal plan. She smiles a lot, but it's not annoying. Her smile is like her outfits, if that makes any sense.

I told my therapist I felt like a slave to my body, to the food she consumes and the aches she feels and the shape of her. He asked if I wanted to talk about what parts of her make me uncomfortable. But thinking about her is what makes me uncomfortable. So I don't think about her.

I think I'm getting bad again. It happens every so often. I know I have it be okay with that. I'm okay with that. At least, I'm trying to be.

I've thought about writing the letter to her, to me. I've written out the draft from time to time in my head. I've thought about what I would say to my stomach and my legs and my arms and my everything. Especially my everything. And it always starts the same way: 'I'm sorry.'

Coincidentally, it always ends that way, too: 'I'm sorry.'

Of course, I know that I am my body. That there is no me outside of it. I'm trapped in this flesh vessel run by randomized chemical reactions and caffeine. The human brain weighs like three pounds. There are three pounds of meat writing this. I'm writing this. But, somehow I still feel detached from it all.

My brain's not me. Neither is my stomach or my legs or my arms or my everything. Especially my everything. That's my body. It's there, right here, and it's a pain to deal with.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry