Wilkie said something that so many people say to me. " Riss, it seems to me that you fight so hard to keep your body alive." This came after a very long discussion about how I do not identify with this ugly, fat, sick, vessel that my mind and spirit calls home. I have told her how disconcerting it is to stand in front of a mirror and not recognize who the hell is staring back. So, I wondered if I should tell the truth about the physical part. I have never, not once told anyone why I am willing to treat the body when it is ill, or in pain. Granted, if I focus on the pain that is caused by living in a diseased body it is so much easier. Easier to admit that I have no fucking clue why my spirit is so ill. I don't have to admit that my mind is ill and torturing me. Underneath all of that is another reason. One that I said out loud for the first time. I believe that the body god gave me was destroyed. Beaten, raped, and finally deemed used up. Because even though my mind and soul screamed for relief. My body refused to obey. I went back. I didn't run fast enough. I couldn't scream loud enough. Most of all I could not tell.
I do not know what memories I have made up, exaggerated, or happened to someone else. All I know is that there are huge empty spots of things I should remember. I also know that deep inside me is a small child that stands in a corner of my mind with her eyes screwed shut and her ears clapped hared over her ears, Her mouth open in a scream that only I can hear. Is she me ? Is she made up ? I don't know. I don't know if it matters.
So, I told her. I feel like I earned the right to destroy this body. I feel like in every way conceivable, this body has betrayed me. It remains to do so to this day. In my mind it is comparable to the worst kind of criminal. I feel that I have earned the right to return the favor in kind. It betrayed me it has teased and tormented me, into believing that I might heal, physically, mentally, and even emotionally. Only to be forced to give up dreams, passions, desires, and needs. Now I am at war with myself. I will beat, starve, purge, medicate, and exhaust it. Because it is my tormentor. Cancer, Pneumonia, coma, hypothyroid, POTS, those are its weapons. I can only fight with what I know.
The only problem with all of this is my spirituality. My belief in god. I know that somewhere stands beside me a guardian angel. He has done a damn good job of reminding me that my values do not mesh with any of this. That I believe that one day there will be peace. That if I can get through one more day I will learn. I will find all of the dreams, the passions, and my deepest desires will be found. So today is one more day that I made it through the pain. Yes I did it with restricting, isolating, and ineffective behaviors. Today I chose another day in hell. I hope one day I don't
I can not tell you enough that living with my aging parents is delightful. However, I can tell you that there are somethings that if I don't laugh at I think I might just kill all three of us.
I have told my father over and over and over. Please, for the love of all that is holy do not, I mean do not touch my clothes while they are in the laundry process. I must be talking to a brick wall. Yes I know that I have a particular way of washing my clothes. I know that they are not his way of washing clothes. I hate coming home after a long day of doctor's appointments, MRI's, poking and prodding to my favorite shirts. shrunk down to a toddler size that I could no more squeeze my foot into then my big ass belly. Then as I try to vent my frustrations to them and try once to convey that my nice clothes that cost me a bunch can not be dried in the dryer. That bras can not be dried on the highest cotton setting. I get a lecture that reminds me that my dear old dad was trying to help his poor sick daughter. Lighten her load so to say. Well, pop if you would listen in the first place we could stop having this convo. I mean really how hard is it to just leave it alone.
Yes, I have OCD. YES I am a basket case. Yes, I am in some pretty severe need of help. NOT with my laundry though. I got that. I don't mind carrying your 25, 50 pound buckets of 30 year old food storage ( sorry Mormon reference ) out of the basement. Even though my sweet ednos, and POT syndrome, and my super fun pain that I can't handle, has me pretty much crawling on the floor. I smiled and said you're welcome. I will say it again Please leave my laundry alone.