The Perfect Me

Cory struggled with her self-image as a huge part of that blasted illness.  When we talked to Dr. Z about it, he told her that humans are horrible judges of their outside appearances...that our brains do not process the image we see in the mirror accurately, but instead monkey around with it just enough to make ourselves feel bad.  He told her the only one who could see us as we truly are is God.  He also told her the next time she started to get that feeling that she wasn't good enough, to just remember that Dr. Z said she was okay.  "Miss?  You are okay with me.  And you always will be."  Bless that man's sweet soul.

I found this poem in her room after the accident, and about bawled my eyes out.

The Perfect Me

I want a brain that will be my tall ladder,
So that I might play with the moisture of the clouds
Not just this lump of dead meat and memories lying lazy in my head.
I want feet that are rough like the crust of the earth, not these tender-heel pussycat paws, too gentle to be put to work.
I want hair that wraps down my back in vines and blooming roses.
I want a face sculpted from the sunbeams that break through the sky on a cloudy day.
I want the breath of angels, breath that's warm like beach sand, and smells sugary like honey and perfume.
I want the eyes God created from broken pieces of Heaven.
And I want skin from the ground where Lucifer fell, not these patches of scarred, dried, used flesh.
I want to be beautiful, know I'm beautiful, and be unforgivably vain.

 

--Corinne Nicole Mansfield