There’s no centimeter of my body I’m not fascinated by.
This isn’t new. I’ve had a sense of awe around my body since early childhood.
As a little girl, I’d stare at the lines of my hands, watching how their color deepened when I stretched the palms and how they threw creases when I made a fist.
I’d map the greens of the veins twisting up my arms and watch my sinews move beneath the transparent skin leading to my wrists.
I put attention on every detail, taking so much time and care to look and feel and explore.
During school, this relationship stagnated into mistrust and paranoia. My body had become this inexplicable force which wanted X while my mind wanted Y.
She and I were at odds a lot. She didn’t feel protected by me, or supported, or heard.
Of course not. I was taught to suppress and ignore her.
But what I never ignored was to take care of her after being hurt.
I hugged her when she needed support and no one else could provide it.
I researched minerals and vitamins to feed her when she was sick.
I developed a method to reliably heal plantar warts, as I got them often until I bought swimming shoes.
I tried alcohol once, and when she immediately rebelled, I respected her and avoid alcohol (I do drink eggnog once a year during Easter and face the consequences).
I tried smoking once, and she hated it, so I never smoked again.
I got my ears pierced a couple years ago after a lifetime of resisting it. The wounds got inflamed despite my utmost care and hygiene. She doesn’t want piercings of any kind, so I respect that as well.
Conventional pads caused her cramps, so I switched to organic pads and she’s happy.
Her gut is susceptible to candida, so I help her by eating pineapple every week and avoiding sweets.
She loves plain water, so I drink it 99% of the time.
Loud noise, clubbing and drunken parties hurt her, so I’ve stopped making her endure those venues.
No tattoos. Make-up once every three months at most. No perfumes. As few chemicals as possible in skin oils and creams.
My addictions weren't substances, but mental: obsessing over people and content, consumption of information, art, and texts, constant day-dreaming. And, once I turned 18, compulsively climaxing multiple times a day to dump energy outwards.
But for substances, I’ve lived my whole life so far as sober as possible. And I regret nothing.
Passing out drunk in one’s own vomit isn’t actually fun. Or enlivening.
My body is me.
Why would I hurt her?
The one time I did want to self-harm as a 6 year-old has stuck with me forever. It was like being under a spell.
Since then, I never could’ve harmed my body so irrevocably again.
I never dieted. I never starved myself. I never overate. I never deprived her of sleep. I never forced my body to look a certain way to be accepted by other people.
And I’m so unbelievably grateful that I never did.
Because my body is the divine.
It’s the culmination of thousands of people who survived and reproduced to create me.
It’s the living proof that a literal country with almost 900 years of history existed until 78 years ago.
My soul didn’t choose this body without purpose. These specific genetics, this specific family history, they’re not by chance, but by design.
And it’s my responsibility to show respect to that.
To love my body for that.
And I’m so grateful for her to be exactly as she is. It’s absolutely perfect.
Her unique challenges are exactly right. The things which expand the space between her cells to make room for my soul to come through more and more are exactly right.
There’s nothing I’d change about my body.
I don’t get to judge the vessel, actually. It’s not my job.
My job is to stand up for her. Protect her. Cherish her. Love her.
Be her.
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