For the last fifteen years, I have had a resentful, hateful sort of relationship with my body. A lucky combination of genes assured that I would always be tall and thin so it was not how my body looked that I had issue with. It was how it felt. And its always felt broken. Every day, every single damn day, for the last 15 years I have woken up in the morning feeling a little or a lot broken and gone to bed at night feeling the same. Sometimes, on the blessedly good days, the pain is a gentle thrum across the entirety of me, from the tips of my fingers to the very edge of my toes, a muffled vibration, a soreness that I imagine other people might experience after a night of intense dancing. On too many days, the pain is more present, an insistent throbbing of every inch of me, impossible to ignore, I call these “truck rolled over me while I slept” days when every little step, even the act of getting out of bed or picking up a stack of books or turning the lid on the Nutella jar requires a pause and a deep breath. On some days like now, post flu or post-baby, I am completely wiped out. My knees and ankles are crying. My fingers and wrists protesting at this typing that I am doing. But then how long can one sit on their hands? My weight brings relief but life with three little people is far too busy to spend more than a few minutes squishing your own fingers. And the voices in my head, they don’t shut up until I’ve written. So here I am. Writing to please my mind while my body would rather be curled up in bed with something very heavy, like a cupboard or something, resting on top of it. When you’ve been in pain for so long, it becomes a part of your psyche. All the tests have been done and the results are in (fibromyalgia), all the sympathies have dried up, all the expectation that you will eventually feel better have long gone. Pain becomes a natural companion, like a conjoined twin that you don’t really like or dislike. So life goes on. You do whatever you have to do. You write, you teach, you raise your kids, you go out with your friends. You don’t talk about it because there’s nothing to say. You don’t mention it because though its always there, most days you don’t even think of it. You are secretly in love with handshakes because for that split second when someone presses your hand, there is a pause in the throbbing. You are a little ashamed but not too much when you ask someone to carry your baby. You automatically hand over a new water bottle for someone else to open and you look studiously away. It’s only every now and then, when you feel an unfamiliar twinge inside you and you recognize that it’s a little blip of envy that you’ve just experienced, you remember. Ah, there goes that sibling/friend/acquaintance/stranger nonchalantly running down the grassy hill, jumping on the trampoline, fixing up the spare room closet, opening that new water bottle, “I wonder what it’s like to not be in pain. They are so lucky.” I have sneaker envy. People looking athletic and glowing with health in their running shoes make me jealous. “I want that.” It’s the only thing that’s ever made me jealous. But I love them too. Intensely. Reverently. I gravitate towards them. Five of my eight closest friends have run marathons or half marathons. Two of my friends are belted in karate. My Pinterest page has Fitness bookmarked. My favorite Reader’s Digest pieces are those comeback stories “Terrible Accident Left Him Shattered. Now A Medalist Distance Runner!” I think I’m used to my body not working the way I want it to on a daily basis but somehow, when it’s struggling after a genuine stress on it, I am still devastated. Its failure to operate pleasingly still has power over my mental health. The last time I felt the darkness creep up on me was after Birdy was born. I had just given birth, everyone feels depleted afterwards, but my years long resentment towards my physical health reared its ugly head at that time: “What’s wrong with you? No one feels as hurt and broken having a baby as you do. Lame. Pathetic. So unfit.” Cue depression. And last week, we were all hit with a stomach bug. It knocked me sideways and then some. But now, not only, am I still feeling really weak physically but I am also stuck in a terrible downward cycle of self hate and increasing poor health. “You’re in so much pain. You’re so unfit. What’s wrong with you? Okay now you’re getting depressed. Way to solve the problem. Do something instead of wallowing. What’s wrong with you? It’s way too late. You’ll never be as strong as you want. It’s never too late, you know that. ” Once the depression has been triggered, the fall out is chaotic. It messes with everything in my outer and inner life. I am quiet. I am raging. I am overly strict. I am extremely laid back. The kids don’t know what’s going on with mom. The husband keeps his peace when I lose it over the top of the juice carton being screwed on too tight for my liking. “It’s like they don’t want anyone to actually get to the juice!” My muse, contrary to most writerly muses, isn’t fond of the darkness. The physical pain and the mental pain vie for the spotlight, and taking turns, take up most of my waking hours. Sleep is restless and painful. There is no relief for the weary. I am tired of being tired. I am too tired to do anything about it. The thing about sadness is that it doesn’t make sense. It makes people uncomfortable. It’s easy to disrespect. It’s tedious. It’s not a tidy, welcoming and welcomed emotion like happiness. I know there are far greater troubles in the world. I know simply having a functional body is so much to be grateful for. I know how blessed I am. I know I need to practice positive thinking. I know it’s never too late, that this is not unfixable. I know that the road to fitness is paved with tiny steps that go forward and backward, I just need to start. I know the sadness escalates the physical pain and the physical pain prompts the sadness and only I can break the connection and the cycle. I am extremely well versed in the theory of it all. So spare me. Our truths bravely shared are what make us human. This, this writing, this self compassion, this sharing of my weak vulnerability, is a shard of humanity that I offer you from the rubble of my current self. Be kind to your demons. Be gracious to those things that tear you down and apart. They are you. They don’t need to make sense or be publicly acceptable. They are you. That is reason more than enough. The temptation right now must be to fix. It must overwhelmingly be to say, “Get up, get over it and get your act together.” I understand. During a more hard ass moment, I might want to say the same to myself. But right now? I’m too tired.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Dec 2014 08:44:08 +0000
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