When I say I hate my body, it’s not what you think.
I think I’m still rather pretty. A bit aged and, yes, wrinkled from the ups and downs I’ve faced. A little weather worn. I’m not bad, though, not perfect but not bad. Aged beyond my years, I’ll admit to, but I’m not unattractive.
Figure? Weight? My figure is fine, my weight is less than I’d like it to be.
It is not an image issue. My body looks pretty much fine. I like my how my body looks and am trying to improve those things I can, toning and what not.
No, when I say I hate my body, it’s an internal matter. I may look fine, but fire crawls under my skin, pain swells around my bones and turns my flesh to unresponsive muck growing like vines up my legs and arms. When the pain is gone I don’t feel anything but faint tingles to remind me that my limbs are still numb.
I’ve developed these curious diagonal lines on my left arm, first it was just a few, but they are growing in number up my arm, like some sort of disjointed tree without a trunk.
My heart is still giving me more trouble than my cardiologist thinks it should.
It feels like every few months I have another specialist to add to my growing harem of doctors. Hell, it feels like I see them more often than I see my husband.
I appreciate my body, and it’s good points, the things about it that have been miraculous. I supported the creation of three wonderful children when I had been told I would never have children. I have survived and at times thrived despite myself.
My husband once joked about trading me in for a newer model after a discussion on my health… I rather bitterly agreed with him, near tears. I didn’t see his face, but the silence probably should have told me at the time that he had realized I wasn’t joking, that I was struggling that much inside my skin. He hasn’t suggested it again since.
I’m not the woman he married. And I feel like I’ve trapped him in a marriage he wouldn’t have chosen if my body had been then what it is now… you know, a ticking time bomb of stupid self-destructive inflammatory responses and short circuited nerves. I feel guilty for that.
He is always on the go. He has biked over 1,000 miles this year alone (in the last 6 months more like). He swims like a fish. Hikes like a goat. Runs like a goddamn gazelle, but, you know, a manly gazelle…?
I used to be right there with him. Never a great swimmer but I could run at a decent pace, climb like a monkey, my abs were actually in better shape than his if you can believe it. Now? Now… I feel like a waif in the wind.
So, I may look okay, I may act fine, and I may not know what’s wrong with me, but I am living in this physical anguish which causes emotional anguish. I am mourning the loss of myself each day, and it hurts a little more every time I can’t keep up with the kids quite as much as they/I/we’d like.
I’m not what you think… I’m not even what I think… the docs are still figuring me out, lol.