Walking

 

Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Keep up the pace: one-and two-and three-and four-and...

The throbbing ache in my shins has diminished. Now the strain is moving upwards into my thighs, and I can feel the thick muscles writhing as I steadily walk along this narrow and broken sidewalk. The air is cold. It burns my nostrils when I inhale. A wind blows my hair over my head and across my face. I am sweating.

Why didn’t she ever love me? An honest love. An unconditional love. A love that did not know disapproval or disappointment. A love that acknowledged my sacrifices and the fulfillment of my obligations. A love that appreciated what I did and what I tried to do.

Why didn’t he ever love me? A love that did not abandon. A love that did not go away. A love that did not ignore or avoid or deny. I come from nothing. I come from no one. I am not the result of two people in union. I am not the product of emotional love realized and enacted through physical love. I am here; here I am.

Skip over a fallen branch. Maintain the pace: one-and two-and... Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot..my legs hurt so much. My arms hurt so much. Oh, my whole body aches, but I cannot stop. I have to get away from all of it. I have to put as great a distance between it and myself as I possibly can. I have to keep walking until I can look behind myself and see nothing. This close to the city, the night sky is orange.

I aspire to a standard which I can never live up to. I have starved myself for that aspiration. I have beaten myself bloody for that aspiration. In frustration, I have covered this body with scars for want of that aspiration. I tell myself that when I am old, I will appreciate my young body in retrospect. I tell myself that if I was paralyzed , I would covet this body in retrospect. Yet I can’t stop my hatred. I can’t get their words out of my head. I can’t forget them. I know what they say and what they’ve said shouldn’t matter, but I can’t forget. Their voices become my voice, inside my head. A constant ridicule.

My right knee is cracking every time I take a step. I can hear the thundering pop inside my head, as if it echoes inside my body. I must not stop. Prettier women tell me that they would rather be plain and anonymous, so they could walk into a room and not be examined, evaluated, and labeled. So they could go out in public and not have to endure the comments and suggestions of strange men. I guess that cliché, about the grass being greener, is right. Sometimes I feel comfortable in my own skin, other times I can’t stand it: I feel disgusted and claustrophobic, as if I’m trapped inside and I have to find a way out. Sometimes it’s the ugliness that does it, but more often than not lately I’ve hated my weaknesses. Now I want to be strong. I want to repair myself. I want to walk into a room and be feared. I want them to see me coming and make way for me. I want them to step aside. I want them to look down as I pass by...

Still walking. Keep walking. Can’t run. To run away from it is too cowardly. Have to walk... one-and two-and three-and... and not look back. Some semblance of dignity...walking and crying. What did I do wrong? Nothing I did gained her approval. And now when she tells me that she’s proud of me, it makes me sick that she can lie to me so grossly. She lies so well that even she believes it, but I cannot. I lived with her scornful looks and disapproving sighs. Nothing I was was good enough. No matter what I do now, no matter what I accomplish, I will never be good enough...oh, shit. I tripped over something and fell on my side, my head briefly banging against the concrete. I roll over on my back, feeling the numbing pain in my head, and stare up at the orange night sky. Must get up. Must keep walking. And I do.

© 1999, A.E.Steffner

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