Damaged Goods

For so long I felt that I stood basically alone in the knowledge that I was indeed damaged goods.  Silence and secrets kept that certain knowledge from ever being questioned or challenged. I learned young that we are to keep our family secrets hidden, that nothing good could ever come by letting anyone know your situation.  Unspoken messages proclaimed loudly that we are best viewed as wallflowers.  I mean actually who really inspects wallpaper closely, it is something to be viewed and appreciated from afar.  Best to make sure that people only saw enough of you to recognize and appreciate the flower that bloomed for all to see, never looking to see the bent and broken stem held up with duct tape and a prayer.

How often do we really inspect those around us for damaged root systems?  Especially children.  And at the root of who we are, do we really ever grow past being children on the inside? Along with the lesson of not speaking that which was by nature unspeakable, the lesson of duck and weave was embedded with force, with each blunt blow to the trunk of my body and the very occasional blow to the face, I learned to duck those that might ask questions and weave from the eyes of those that might view the residual damage.  The internal bruises were mine, they were kept clearly out of the vision of all, mostly even to myself.  Or so I thought.

For as long as I can remember food never assaulted me, never questioned me with impenetrable stares, refused to ask of me more than I could give.  Food soothed my cuts, calmed my fears, shielded me from anticipation for the next episode. Food offered up to me solace from the world. Comfort for another day.  Then food itself turned on me.  Long ago the concrete source of my abuse was removed, age and distance saw an end to the physical but honestly any abused person can attest that we tend to pick up where the abuser ends, continuing the berating, the belittling, keeping the recording of abuse playing long after the music stops.  Yes, food, the fickle friend, decided to bestow upon me many weight related maladies.

High blood pressure, elevated cholesterol and triglycerides, the constant threat of diabetes, pounding at my door.  But the worst part of all with dance with food was that she told the story of our affair.  I never had to open my mouth to utter words, simply open it to dine on her lies and deceit. She promised me fluffy bites of sweetness, crunchy morsels of saltiness, cold cool drinks of liquid sweetness, she seduced me completely and I allowed it.  I bought the lies that she sold and she left the tail tale signs all over my hips, my waist, my bosoms.  We sinned in private but she revealed our relationship in public, eventually forcing me to become reclusive.  She won out...or so she thought.

The day that I made the decision to severe my ties with food's glutinous promises, was the day I freed myself from my self inflicted prison.  As I walked to the operating room, I stripped her of her power, the surgeon severed any future hope she had of keeping me captive.

We do somehow survive our past, we do find ways to comfort ourselves, in time we hope to thrive...but in the meantime we find a way to inspect our damage, speak of that which we only believed to be unspeakable. If we are lucky,  we discover others that plant seeds of hope within, those that accept us for who and what we are, that see our past our damaged places to find what we too can offer to the world.  We find our station in life.