I am learning to forgive myself for being unkind to a body who nurtured and cared for me yet battered and broke her into pieces and offered her as a sacrificial offering to those who wouldn’t accept me even at my very best. As a curse and a blessing, I now care for wounds caused by my own hands. Telling myself, as bloody as they may be, I must be tender to her, for she protected me when I had wanted nothing but to be someone else.

My body wears the marks of a wounded soldier; you would think she had seen life, but what is worse than a battle fought internally? One where the Victor and the vanquished remain at the same place?

On days when the pain becomes unbearable, gentle sobs escape my lips, and I hope she understands how remorseful I am. I believe she hears me because the pain lessens for a little moment; maybe it is her telling me she will forever protect me? Days like this I wish I were accepted by people and not told to change, but what did I know? I was merely 10.