My Body

I want to write about my body. Tonight, I'm at a storytelling event. It is so intimate, so personal, so painful and so healing. It is sold out. We are standing in a dark room of mostly strangers listening to brave souls talk, tremble through some of the most painful moments and experiences in their lives. I don't cry but one thing that was said stays with me. She talks about her body as this other entity. Something that existed outside of her. Her body now invites her back. Says that she loves her, tells her to come home, to come inside. And so, I wonder if I did not cry at the event standing in the crowd, I wonder if I will cry now as I am writing this.

I hate my body.

That is the truth.

My body is resilient and strong. It endures for more than I think it can. Despite all its broken pieces, it continues to endure. To wake up each day and move with somewhat grace through the day's motions. This body is soft and smooth. It is delicate, beautifully so. It stands so proudly despite its smallness. My legs are so powerful with all the steps I take with my worn soles and the shoes I've worn away. My body is an object of male appreciation - all the things they say they want to do to this body, how they wish to fold me and shape me, all the holes they want to fill, all the things they want to snarl to my face. My body is small, appropriate and in line with what this society wants all girl bodies to be. Small and in need of protection. This body carries me through each day, from point A o B, no matter how tired I am. No matter how much I don't want to exist on any given day. This body is powerful and enduring and even, beautiful.

I hate this body.

I don't know if there was ever a moment in my life, in nearly 25 years that I loved this body of mine. A moment where I didn't resent this body's limitations, its malfunctions, its delicacies from the organs that fail to work and look as they should, to the bad blood that courses through my veins, to the fingers and hands I now see as damaged, to the legs that remind me of old people - why do my legs have age spots resembling an 80-year old woman? How can this body be me? The way my skin on my face is raised and inflamed, the way my eyes are oo small, my nose too flat, my voice too low, my body not thin enough. There is so much to hate, so much to insult and pick apart. How can someone be so imperfect? How can speech be so mean?

I am not stupid. I know how society teaches us, particularly young girls, to speak so cruelly about our bodies. How many industries and the number of jobs that must rely on the cruel way we speak about our bodies. How many jobs it is to find new and interesting ways to say mean things about our bodies, this body. I am aware that this is a social construct. I am aware these lies are invented. These lies have never been my truth, nor will they ever become my truth. I am aware of the benefits and the sheer necessity to be naked. To face my nakedness and my vulnerability. I know. I hate my body anyways.

It is entirely isolating. Some days, I want to shout - scream from the hills - "I HAVE LUPUS." I have this life-altering illness that shapes every decision in my life. I can't move abroad because if I do, I don't know what I will do about health coverage and my frequent doctor' appointments. I can't go deeper in a pose or I can't run faster because that means I won't have enough energy for the rest of the day. I don't know how to tell potential partners about my lupus because I'm not sure they would want to deal with it. After all, I wouldn't want to deal with it. I'm so scared about getting sick. How do you explain the physical pain of a common cold to normal people? People who have often never experienced great physical pain so early in their lives. If I shout my truth at them, how can they possibly understand? And yet, I want to shout. I want sympathy. I want a second chance. I want to be treated delicately. Granted too much undeserving kindness. I want it all. I do not have it all. I do not shout I have lupus. I have kept it inside for so long despite the resh living on the outside, on my skin always. Despite the questions, the looks, the bullying.

I need to be more open about my body; with my body. I need to be more vulnerable. I need to trust my body. For fuck's sake, I need to learn to love my body. I need to learn to accept all its struggles, my struggles. Acknowledge that some of these struggles will stay with me all my life. They may never disappear and likely, they will worsen. I need to love her anyways. I don't really know how. I spent so long hating her.

I'm hoping to learn. I'm hoping to improve. I'm hoping to love.

May 30th, 2017

August 28, 2016

September 28, 2015