She went to the doctor yesterday; and came home crying. A mixture of frustration and relief. She’s not crazy. Just ill. Terribly ill. But is doesn’t show. At least, not to those who don’t know what to look for. She’s just fat, she doesn’t exercise enough, she must binge eat when no one’s looking. You look at her, you pity her, you dread ever becoming like her. But you don’t understand her.
She’s ill. Terribly ill.
Her butterfly’s wings are broken. Trapped inside its own body. Unable to flap its beautiful but oh so fragile wings. Its under attack. Someone has mistaken it for a Hostile Invader, an Outsider, a Threat. So it must be Killed. Eradicated. Destroyed.
She cries. Frustration, at times, her chief emotion. She’s ill. So very ill.
But to the naked eye, its invisible.
Her once thick, beautiful, flowing hair is falling out. So she cuts it off. She wears it up. She endures the silent judgement.
They think she doesn’t care. She doesn’t try.
But she does. She tries so hard every day. To keep up with the simplest of tasks.
To get out of bed every day, when exhaustion robs her of any motivation. To be nice, calm, gracious; when the white hot anger or deep sadness rises out of no where. An uninvited guest. Threatening to take her over. To swallow her whole. Drag her down. Hold her prisoner.
She hates herself. Her reflection mocks her every chance it gets. Reminding her that she is trapped in her own body. No Pictures Please! Fill the camera with pictures of a happy baby held in daddy’s arms. Mommy will take the picture; being in it causes too much pain. Robs the moment of its joy. Reminds her of her weakness.
Reminds her that her body is not how she imagines in her head.
A New Normal
Take this pill every day, you’ll be okay. Eat this, not that. Learning to live with it. Trying to fight back.
Running. Endless miles. Never gaining ground… or losing weight.
Taking great care for a body that doesn’t care for her. Her butterfly has died. No longer trying to flap its wings. It lays, diseased, swollen beyond recognition, no longer delicate or beautiful.
She hides her once slender, pretty neck behind colorful scarves. So that no one notices how thick its become. Painful, Sore, Riddled with Bumps, Taken over by swelling.
No one sees, no one understands. She’s just fat they say behind her back. She’s just not trying hard enough.
She’s ill. So terribly ill.
Every day she borrows more strength to fight a battle against her own body. A battle that may already be lost.
They can’t win though. They can’t have her Soul, her Joy, her Freedom. God holds those pieces firmly in His hand. Protecting, Sheltering, Soothing.
She is Not her disease.
She Is Beautiful.
Worthy to be loved.
A delight in His eyes.
Her body is a temple worthy to house a King. The King of Kings.
God knows. He sees. He wipes her tears. He lends her strength.
She is not this disease. This illness. She is not Hashimotos. And Hashimotos is not her.
She is more. Because He said so! More than a not so healthy body. Held firmly in her Father’s hands.
Finally, there’s joy in that.