Sunday Scribblings...Skin

Skin…taut, pulled firm against bone and failing muscles. Skin…padded, cushioned, protection against the world and the self. Skin…scarred and bruised, covered in shame, bared in pride.

For the past month, the skin of these women stares back at me, forcing me to evaluate my own skin, forcing me to cast my eyes downward on the skin that is the doorway to my world. And as I catch sight of my reflection, my world begins spinning as I reminisce and acknowledge the hunger of my own skin. As I doubt the thickness of this layer that stands between my heart and reality. As I am questioned by others about the competency, the strength, of my skin.

It is uncomfortable these days. My skin does not feel like my own, too much questioning resulting in attempts to expand the layers that lie beneath my skin. I walk through the door and eyes are cast doubtfully in my direction. Are my bones visible? Does my profile reveal enough depth to warrant relief? And consequently, I come home to feast upon protein and more protein, healthy fats, and an array of junk food…anything to put the weight on. But it is uncomfortable to live this way. My body is protesting that health does not come with more weight beneath my skin. And the end result is punishment for the body that God gave me. No clinical work unless I can alter the natural form of my body, unless my clothes reveal a tag stating size “5” instead of “0”.

Sometimes skin is just skin. But most often, our skin is simply the message we carry to the world of what lies underneath. Where I work, our skin carries the message of health versus sickness, strength versus weakness, trust versus mistrust. Each day that I walk into the office, my body, my skin, is scrutinized. Am I too thin? Is the weight gain enough? Can I carry the pain and anger that will be thrown at me from my patients? Each day, I walk in with my sole focus to help my patients, and each day the focus is turned back upon me, my body, my skin.

It is a dangerous way to live, an environment that threatens the durability and acceptance of my own skin on a daily basis. Food, weight, the bodies covered by skin…these are the essence, the center of the world beyond those doors. Not enough? Too much? Are there compensatory behaviors? Does guilt follow the last bite of supper? Dieticians and scales and a kitchen stocked with an endless supply of nutrients. Doctors and tests, diagnosis and prognosis…will this one survive? Will she be able to tolerate one, two, three more pounds on her skeletal frame? Will that one stop running to the bathroom after each morsel of food that enters her mouth? Will the repulsive scent of vomit linger until death knocks on her door? Yes, it is dangerous and frightening and exhausting. But these are my patients, not me.

And so somehow in the midst of these women, in the midst of a world that focuses far too much on body size and dimensions, I must find a way to live comfortably within my skin. And in this skin, I must find a bridge to reach these women, these patients. I must find a way to help them reach a place where they can find the courage to love themselves. Anything, everything…not just skin.