The Beautiful Cold

I'm not poetic. I am not talented with words what-so-ever. There is not an elegant bone in my body. I am blessed to be able to surround myself with many beautiful minds, people whom I admire and truly inspire me.

Being that close to something, something that you recognize as extraordinarily special, immensely important, makes you look at yourself. It makes you wonder if some of this beauty that radiates hasn't rubbed off on yourself. I spend my days truly taking up space and contributing nothing of worth to anyone in particular. I dull out advice to friends with a sharp tongue that does nothing but portray me as a harsh, unintelligent hick (my accent doesn't help matters). I love to read. I thoroughly love classic literature. I love romantic, idealistic, whimsical stories that make the heart lighter and cause unrelenting grins. I can recognize beauty. I recognize it in words, places, and people. I see it in the pure white morning light that pierces through the window when I first open my eyes and the contradicting chill that fills my senses when I step outside into that light. That beautiful cold.

If only I had words that were charming enough to describe that feeling. If only I were articulate enough.

Sometimes I cannot fathom how my friends can stand me. I know being someone who self loathes, I see this subject with a blanket (one of those very heavy down comforters) of bias. But honestly, they are brilliant. I am not just saying this, I am not bragging. And on top of these talents that they wield like the powers of superheroes, they are survivors. They have seen and had to endure things that I could only imagine.

Not that my life hasn't been filled with tragedy. I was a 7 year old rape victim who was too scared to tell anyone who could actually do anything about it. Now I shoulder it because if i told anyone it would certainly destroy the family. I'm lying. I don't honestly care about the family. I would destroy it in a second to see some pitch forks and fire. It is just that if I tell them, I will be constantly watched. I will be constantly pitied. There will be no escaping it. I will be the girl who was raped by her uncle. I don't want the attention. I don't want to answer the questions. I don't feel anything about it. I run as fast as I can from becoming the victim. There isn't a bottomless pit where my sorrow just lays stagnant, rotting my insides and destroying any chance I have at having a normal life. The only scar that I can't shake is a resistance to any kind of physical contact and having actual relationships with any family members. I can't hug my father or have any kind of conversation that runs deeper than superficial banter that has pre determined boundaries. My parents just think I'm a bitch. I'm okay with that. It could be worse.

That went completely off topic.

I guess the point of this post is...

I can better my body. I can shape it into the clean, graceful machine I long for. I can restrict and restrict till there is nothing but it will not matter. The "graceful" I desire not only pertains to my body but to my mind.