This Body of Mine
This body of mine...I've had it for over 46 years now. At times, it has seemed separate from ME, from my mind and heart and soul. At times, it has seemed to be my enemy. At times, I have hated it deeply.
This body survived a mother who never taught me to eat properly, who gave me her blood pressure meds to take as diet pills when I was a girl, who had me binging and starving before I could read. This body survived a rape. This body survived the excessive use of liquor and drugs and self-abuse beyond measure. This body has battled diabetes and asthma and maddening sciatic pain. This body weighed 300 painful pounds just a year ago...and is 140 pounds less than that now.
I've hidden this body of mine. Felt such deep shame about it. Felt helpless, trapped
inside of it. As I lose weight, fit into sizes I have not worn since my mid-20s, I still
sometimes look in the mirror and sigh in frustration...fear to share what I see with
others...fear that too too bitter sting of rejection...
Next week, I am going to walk ten miles and climb 1000 steps to fight diabetes. I've been practicing for this walk for some months now. Yesterday, I got apx. eight miles in...as I walked alongside the river yesterday, it hit me, just how far I had come...not just the miles I'd done so far...but, a mere year ago, I had many days when my blood sugar had me so sick and so tired, I just couldn't even exercise...when my breathing came so heavily, I had to stop and rest every couple blocks...and forget stairs...when my heart pounded so that I was frightened into stopping...when the pain in my back and legs often kept me from walking half a block...left me in tears. Now, I run up the stairs. Now, I walk every chance I get. I took swimming lessons this year. Plan to get on a bike for the first time in years very soon. Watching joggers and runners by the river yesterday, I thought: I think I could do that.
Down by the Water Works, beneath the shadow of the great Philadelphia Museum of Art, I looked up and I remembered being up there pre-wls, looking down at the place where I now stood, wishing I could climb on down there and back up again, hurting inside because I couldn't. I feared finding myself helpless. I have this memory of falling on my way to work, not being able to get up, having to ask for help because a passerby didn't offer...guess he didn't know if he'd be able to lift me...still...he should have offered...though, I guess finding myself becoming debilitated with age wasn't a huge fear because I really believed I would be dead by my early 50s. There didn't seem to be a way around that.
Yesterday, I realized how far I'd come...how far I had pushed this body of mine...how much further I knew I could pu**** if I had to...and, as that realization hit me, my head went up...my shoulders went back...I walked prouder. This body is as much a part of ME as my mind and heart and soul. And I love it.
I love this flawed and wonderful body of mine. I love its strength and flexibility, its sensitivity, its softness and hardness, its durability, its glorious healing, its drive to survive. I had already walked about 5 miles by the time I reached the foot of the Art Museum steps yesterday and they looked a bit daunting for a moment...then, I saw myself climbing next week, part of the thousand I will climb that day, saw myself breaking through the pain and simply doing it...I said to myself, "I am Goddess," and I climbed. I can. And with joy. How dare I not?
I'm becoming friends with this body of mine, learning, for the first time, what it needs
from me, what it can do for me, what it deserves from me and from others. I'm learning to love this body of mine and am dedicating myself to taking care of it. And making peace, finally, with who and what I am, wholly, completely. And it's good.
Lisa
That was very well written. Look how far you have come. I'm proud of you and can't even image how proud you are of yourself. Good luck next week!!!
Hugs,
Tabby 
Love ya's!
Lisa 
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