This weeks word: Quiet
I stand quiet and still as the nurse pushes the small silver scale along looking for a balance that I have never found.
She jots down the number on my chart. Asks me my height, fixes the cuff on my arm and I feel the constriction. The pressure pushing in on me.
I hate doctors appointments. Partly because the role of patient is one I’ve had far too many times in my life.
So I sit patiently.
There is no clock in here. No hands to show how time goes by for those who wait in cold blue paper gowns, crinkling and open wide and exposing.
And I know that the rap on the door will come and she’ll walk in and sit. Flip open her chart and ask me the questions I’ve avoided all year.
“How are you doing with your depression? What are you doing for exercise? How is your diet going?”Knowing all well that the answers to that and so much more were answered from the first step on that cold metal scale toppling into loss. Sliding right farther and farther.And I know that these struggles have nothing to do with a number, but everything to do with my soul. A spirit still so wounded.
I know that in the quiet the voice that opens my mouth wide is one of self loathing and I bite down hard on those morsels of disdain. And I swallow hard and let remorse sink into my pit and swell large and gestate into a full-grown thing that eats away at me.
And I’ve birthed babies from this belly. I’ve grown to love the scars that dip and flower on my skin, a badge for my burgeoning mother body. But those days are done and now I carry this weight with me, an armor against those looks. That interest from a man. That creeping of eyes over my flesh, feeling vulnerable and childlike, five again, and so frail. This weight speaks volume, shouts in the quiet and keeps me caged.
And I hear the rap, and the door cracks open, and I know that in this silence, God is calling me to hear Him again. Hear Him and believe.