Growing up, I was taught that my body was wrong.
/Growing up, I was taught that my body was wrong.
— Wrong for attracting grown men as a child.
— Wrong for feeling pain deemed attention-seeking.
— Wrong for crying or moving slowly when sick, aka “dramatic.”
— Wrong for asking for help because my youth obviously prevented me from TRUE aches and pains.
— Wrong for asking to see a doctor, which I only deserved when I could pay the copay myself (or if my pain was so bad I was immobile and screaming for days).
— Wrong for storing fat after being on a medication that made me sick — while being treated for a diagnosis I never received from a doctor, but from a parent.
— Wrong for not paying attention & talking too much & asking too many questions in school. (Because ADHD was not an option, I wanted to cause trouble, obvs.)
— Wrong for feeling and expressing emotions, and for not “getting over” the trauma - the abuse, the deaths, the homelessness, the rapes - I experienced.
So it’s not surprising that after 30 years of learning to shut down, ignore, dismiss, minimize, push through and explain away my pain and illnesses — my body is no longer willing to comply.
I’m bedbound today, and work was hellish.
A heavy chest, short of breath, migraine, hurting eyes, ears and throat, no appetite, nausea & exhaustion — all on top of my already, constantly aching body.
And I was worried I wouldn’t be able to finish my shift.
Sure, I had to darken my screen, and wince on calls as my ears felt like the had ice picks drilling into them.
Sure, I laid my head on my desk so the room would stop spinning, and heated up my rice pack over and over so I could keep my head up when my neck, shoulders and back were screaming for rest.
Sure, trying to think critically and dig into a problem for a client led me to lay down on the cold floor in the command center — not by choice, but so I didn’t pass out and hit my head. (I don’t need another traumatic brain injury.)
But I finished it.
And then I went to virtual therapy - where my therapist reminded me that I’m not wasting time (my worry in cancelling on her last minute) by taking care of myself.
That maybe, just maybe, I could listen to my body when I’ve turned the heat up, assembled a space heater, and the rice pack, and a sweater and a blanket — plus two liquids, a dimmed down computer screen, and blue light glasses just to be able to sit for another hour — and go to bed.
That maybe just because I learned that my body is wrong, and lying, and overdramatic and “always sick” (which it’s not) — I still deserve to rest.
That there’s no capacity I have to hit.
No limit I have to surpass.
That there’s no maximum amount of times to be sick or feel pain before people get sick of me. (Even though I’ve been told that MANY times.)
I was today years old when I learned that my body is not wrong.
Something is wrong in my body.
And the I only way I can make it right is by listening when she speaks up.
So, back to bed y’all. I hope it’s not the Covid, I’ve made it almost 2 years without it.