New Life

Skin and bones, don't fail me now.

I have treated you so badly. I doused you in alcohol for years. I've filled you with countless antibiotics and antidepressants. (And don't forget the anti-psychotics and anxiety medications which they used over and over in an attempt to bring me back to the land of the living.) Because of that, your liver still hurts on occasion. You never fail to remind me of my life of excess. Sometimes you're a bitch like that.

Lungs, you deserve a special apology. I've been smoking for years. I know you hate me for that - because you send me sinus infection after bronchitis after pneumonia in a reminder that I'm just being stupid every single time I reach for my lighter. I'm sorry. I promise I will give it more than a girl scout try this year to stop hurting you.

I've fried you in vain attempts to have the perfect tan. I've scrubbed and scraped at your skin trying to get that perfect complexion. I've cut you. On purpose at times - in that black hole of depression I now call alcoholism. I moisturize you on some days and not on others. However, I do cherish your wrinkles around the eyes. They tell me that I have - whether I believe it on some days or not - lived a life of laughter.

I've alternately starved you and filled you with horrendous food as I cycled through fits of anorexia and not caring what I looked like. You responded with stretch marks. I don't cherish those like I do my wrinkles. No. I don't. You can stop doing that anytime.

I've given up on exercise. I've given up on good sleep. On occasion, I try once more to give your muscles and your heart what they need. Cardiovascular strength? Um, no. I'm sorry. I know you want to rest more than you ever have before. Naps are more a necessity than a treat. And it's only because I was so oblivious to your needs in my previous life. You like alot of sleep. Mom used to send you to bed long before the other kids because she knew this. I was a brat and didn't believe it. I do now. You tell me without reservation when it's time to slow down.

I've filled your mind with vast amounts of knowledge and drivel. The synapses that run through your brain are hard and fast. I like you. I like your mind alot. In fact, I do believe you're my best feature - but don't tell the rest of them. They might revolt.

You are now bionic. My rod and bolts - they comfort me. Someday we'll have those removed and an attempt will be made to fix your knee that locks up in angry fits of bitterness. That was a very unfortunate accident, but you responded with a whole body kindness that took to crutches and physical therapy with abandon. Thank you for that.

You are still here. You still work. And I apologize for how awfully I have treated you. You have seen me through what I hope is the worst of times. You don't want to work the way that I want you to anymore, but that's okay. You're tired and you're worn. You've lived. And I've finally joined you on this journey that is life. I pray you keep on hanging in there with me. We've got a lot of time left to spend together.