This poem is a response to our January prompt.
144
So odd what we cling to
even four years out of the treatment center:
the BMI equation I still remember.
Whatever it meant for me to weigh 105 pounds,
it’s a tremor in the back of my head.
They say recovery takes at least seven years.
It’s been four since I started recovery,
three since I first relapsed, two and a half since the last time.
It’s complicated, but I’m venturing a reflection.
In the mirror I don’t look much different
than I have always looked, at least, not to my eyes, and
those are the eyes that matter. My mind
is different, though, like a root is different from a seed.
I used to think it defined me.
So odd what we cling to,
even after we think we have sloughed our burdens;
so odd the way a burden can become a gift. I can attempt some wisdom,
if you’d like to listen: stay close to the ground.
Keep one hand on the soil and the other
pressed to your belly. Remember and relinquish;
strike a balance, remain hopeful, don’t ever
think you are nothing without your pain.