I am (un)kind
I wrote this quite recently. One morning when I woke up and realised what was wrong with myself. I am fighting a lifelong battle. And I have made the decision to fight myself with dignity.
I am (un)kind
I haven’t been very kind to myself.
I carve lines onto my skin and spread soap over mutilated wounds. Skip breakfast and lunch to feel corrosive acid sizzle and guzzle at epithelial cells of sorts. Then down litres of water in a toilet flush of acid over ulcers. Hollow hello is it going down /echos/. I spit out half my bread I lie I hate the crusts I throw my rice into the bin I don’t care about starving children in africa because carbohydrates are not energy, they are fat. I wake up in the darkness dreaming of tomatoes but it was hydrochloric acid again. I lock the toilet door to purge and work the threadmill past 12. Day after day gasping for air up the stairs. Taking care of myself is repugnant. Treating myself is a sin. Clawing my nails into my flesh relieves pain and watching my hair fall is satisfying.
But I am kind.
I help my brothers with their homework, I talk to my friends when they are sad. I visit old folk and buy them their favourite breakfast, clean their windows and listen to their stories. I tutor children without parents and swing them on the playground. I make my dad breakfast, his favourite kind with toad-in-a-hole eggs and I bake cakes for my mum, her favourite yuzu of course. I go on missions to timor and play with children in refugee camps. Bring them to the doctors to get them the medicine they need. They like balloons and each one gets one because they should be treated with toys and delights and every child deserves happiness, care and rainbow rays of light.
I promise I am kind. I promise I am loving.
I am a good person.
Just not to myself.