Things I'm afraid to tell you

by MB

I wish I didn't rely on you as much as I do. 

I'm afraid you'll judge me, not because of my problems, but because of my inability to solve them on my own

After I fractured my pelvis, you told me you got my email and instinctively wished you could invite me over to your apartment to take care of me, to let me lay on your couch and wallow in its comfort. I cried after you told me this, overwhelmed by the empathy which alienated me from myself.

Talking about sex and acknowledging that I have a sex life, even in the abstract, is beyond uncomfortable. It reminds me of my body and her needs, the there-ness of intimacy and pleasure, admitting defeat to her own stubborn, physical self. 

My relationship with Ed, my body's biological response to our connection, is abnormal. Unwarranted. As an adolescent, my body betrayed me. As an adult I wish for nothing more than to disappear. 

Your body - petite, contained, orderly - is everything mine is not, and everything that my mother wishes hers is. I wonder if you struggle with your own weight, your own body. How you navigate the muddle between health and obsession. The values you pass along to your daughter about her body.

Sometimes I feel like I have to put on a show for you, as if I'm auditioning for a role in your pristinely shrouded (but always, inexplicably, undeniably real) life.

I miss you more today than I did yesterday.