Ode to Recovery

While little girls and boys were trying to mold clay into flowers, I was trying to mold my body into a Barbie doll. My stomach was the canvas and my hands were the paintbrush, and I tugged at my skin until it was the color of fire and burned. Now I use my hands to hold prayer books and I bless every time my body carries me through the day without wanting to faint. I bless the times I cry through meals but eat anyway. I bless my friends who listen to me vent, even when my problems are too big for them to grasp. I bless my therapists for listening to those big problems. I bless the times where I wake up to men grabbing me in my sleep, but realize that it’s only a nightmare. I bless the nights when I hold a razor blade to flesh but don’t break the skin. I bless the times that I called the suicide hotline. I bless every day that I am alive and every day where being alive isn’t my only accomplishment. I bless fresh air and sunsets and furry cats and sand and all the little things that I can see now that I’ve conquered the big things. And for all these blessings the greatest one of all is the one called recovery.