Numbers

 

 

 

I am not embodied in a weight digit – 100, 10, or 1 less pound than yesterday.  I am not the number of pushups I can do – barely one, a full ten, or too many to count.

 

I am not the number between today and my last emotional crisis – a year, a week, or a few hours.

 I am not my BMI – underweight, heavy once again, or that perfect balance I want.

I am not my fears, either insects, embarrassment or abandonment. I am not a trend … the clothing, the Polaroid photos, or the things I have chosen to submit to.

I am not a blog statistic – 1, 10, or a million people. I am not my facebook likes, no matter who cares about my photos.

I am not the color of my skin – different, odd to you, or just like your own.  I am not my number of friends – a circle, a city, or a silent room.

I am not their treatment of me, when they choose flattery, ignorance, or total spite. I am not the opinion of my Love – when it was full and strong, or now stale and faded with time.

I am not my bra  size, even when it shrinks with my fading weight.

 I  am not my parents’ words when they are loving, cold, or not at all. I am not the number of Bible Verses I know by heart – a thousand or only my favorite.

I cannot be painted on a wall, be summed up in grade percentages, packed in a box or embodied in your washed-out memory of me. I am not some box of secrets or just another pastor’s daughter in Africa. I cannot be described by my shape, my sense of style, flexibility, or my inability to keep a boyfriend.

 I am not forgotten. I am not summed up in the amount of love I receive or the number of people that I know how to please. I am not the OCD I can barely fight. I am not the sound of gray, restless insomnia or the burn of my lasting headaches.

I am not my problems. I am not even the people that I love – the vivacious, the chipped, or the outcasts.

I am not the bullies that stalk me in my nightmares; monsters, old friends … or the numbers.