My Beautifully Imperfect Self Story #lorijeanfinnila #memoir #love #family #story
She was so tiny and seemed to be always fighting. She was trying to talk and send her message. She would pluck many times on her plastic pink piano trying to convey words that she was here, she was alright. She was more than alright, but how would she tell them.
Half the size of others, food was hard to go down. Greasy to her things would make her stomach sick. She would pull slabs of dry meat out to eat them. That was mainly what she liked. Things that were plain and not complicated to her mind she ate and seem to be able to connect to. Those were the things that she could digest with no problem. The whispers and cries at night, about her. The doctors visit and countless measurements were persistent in her life. The worried look but business-like with a professional smile from the doctor that she would be fine. She would grow and catch up, but her professional sense would show as well. The worried looks would carry home with her. She didn't notice; she was just a little girl.
She continued not to grow. The flowers grew past her head. She loved the height of them on her. She could talk up to them, yet she felt greater than them. The whispers of the forest and the greatest of life were always calling to her. She would run to them and let them invite her into their world. They loved her and she loved them.
Her cries when they would die left emotional disturbances on top of her size. The little baby clothes she wore for a 2-3 year old would be disturbing for some, but not her. The big flowers on her shirt that matched the same colors in her short were planned so perfectly for her. Her routine and her world were made perfect and she felt this was perfect, and it would be perfectly suited for her. Her world would have to be this way as well to follow. It could only be because this was the way she would survive.
Her mind seemed far, but she was always creating, always telling a story to herself. Her story was so deep. She talked to the flowers, the bugs, the frogs, the ants.They were her friends. When they would die she couldn't understand. Deep cries would be heard and questions to this action. Doctors would be called to her emotional state. Would this make things worse? Is this part of the condition? Those that loved her would come to see her on flag day and cry at her small condition.
All would sit around her trying to get her to eat, drink, enact with them. Finally, one day she began to grow, from all the love that was given to her.
Lori at 16.
Half the size of others, food was hard to go down. Greasy to her things would make her stomach sick. She would pull slabs of dry meat out to eat them. That was mainly what she liked. Things that were plain and not complicated to her mind she ate and seem to be able to connect to. Those were the things that she could digest with no problem. The whispers and cries at night, about her. The doctors visit and countless measurements were persistent in her life. The worried look but business-like with a professional smile from the doctor that she would be fine. She would grow and catch up, but her professional sense would show as well. The worried looks would carry home with her. She didn't notice; she was just a little girl.
She continued not to grow. The flowers grew past her head. She loved the height of them on her. She could talk up to them, yet she felt greater than them. The whispers of the forest and the greatest of life were always calling to her. She would run to them and let them invite her into their world. They loved her and she loved them.
Her cries when they would die left emotional disturbances on top of her size. The little baby clothes she wore for a 2-3 year old would be disturbing for some, but not her. The big flowers on her shirt that matched the same colors in her short were planned so perfectly for her. Her routine and her world were made perfect and she felt this was perfect, and it would be perfectly suited for her. Her world would have to be this way as well to follow. It could only be because this was the way she would survive.
Her mind seemed far, but she was always creating, always telling a story to herself. Her story was so deep. She talked to the flowers, the bugs, the frogs, the ants.They were her friends. When they would die she couldn't understand. Deep cries would be heard and questions to this action. Doctors would be called to her emotional state. Would this make things worse? Is this part of the condition? Those that loved her would come to see her on flag day and cry at her small condition.
All would sit around her trying to get her to eat, drink, enact with them. Finally, one day she began to grow, from all the love that was given to her.
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