Lisa by Fallulah copyright 2001
Out of her pouting lips comes words that only make sense for her. When she was four she sat in Stanley Park getting her picture drawn, a grin upon her face. Now 22 years later she stares up at the picture from her bed as her long slim arms dangle over the side. A� billion different moments have passed since that photo. Each moment has a� billion different thoughts attached. Only she could make sense of each one and only she could dig herself out of this hell she has put herself in. How could the doctors stand above her with their 7 some years of university and indulge in a sea of assumptions in order to diagnose her. The ticking of her bed side clock was driving her insane. Of all the million things she could be doing she was lying on her bed thinking yet not processing any of her thoughts. She thought about the million ways in which she needed to improve and her lack of desire to do so. She thought about all the people she loved, yet the barriers between them. She pictured her first day of school and her favorite band that was soon to arrive. She imagined herself on a boat in the middle of a lake. The waves crashing over and splashing her and her laughter.
She pictured her breasts and how small they were and how she dispised people with small breasts. How it bothered her that they got the short end of the stick yet that little voice in the back of her mind still told her they could control it. She looked down on those women, which is why she couldn't bring herself to consider her own tiny breasts. Somehow she could switch her self-image to think it would or could change or it was already different. She had been born skinny, her whole life being either scorned or envied...sometimes both. She did with her life what she could. She couldn't understand people who didn't understand not to critisize her. That she was still a little girl who was learning and needed a hug when she fell down. Glancing down at her feet she wondered if she would ever escape her own head. It was as if everyone was trying to escape but had anyone ever succeeded and would they know it? Why was she dependant on things she didn't understand? Toss a frisbee, dance in the yard, just go and do something other than thinking. Thought is a drug that paralyzed her. Easy for them to say...they weren't in Stanley Park. She was beautiful by many standards...yet she considered beauty a strong term. To be called beautiful was to give recognition to all...the whole being, inside and out.
She was tired, she closed her eyes, she slept.