Letter to My Body

To my chronically ill Body,

For too long, my love for you was only skin deep. I saw you purely as an aesthetic object—a poor one at that—and you were valued only as far as my self-criticism allowed. 

I am ashamed to say that for most of my life, I haven’t been kind to you. I have not always given you the love you deserve. In fact, I have been downright cruel to you, in thoughts, words, and deeds. I have spent so much of my life at war with you, disgusted that you don’t contort yourself into molds that don’t belong to you. At various times, I have cursed the fat on my stomach, hips, thighs, and arms, the hormonal blemishes on my face, the stretch marks and cellulite constellations spreading under my skin, the frizz and waves in my hair, my seeming lack of symmetry.

For too many years, I hated mirrors because when I looked in one, I couldn’t help but tally all the ways in which you disappoint me—all the ways in which I disappoint myself. So I avoided my reflection, staking claim to a strange disassociation from you. I ignored you—and you were so easy to ignore you unless something was wrong. 

But you were determined to be heard: to show me the unnecessary ugliness I felt about you and myself, you asked me to pay attention every time I got a skull-crushing migraine, every time my allergies made it difficult to breathe, every time I had a painful IBS episode, every time the neuropathy in my hands stung, every time I felt discombobulated by hidden depression and anxiety. 

Then the biggest "something wrong" happened three years ago: trigeminal neuralgia (TN). There was no way for me to prepare for how my life would change, especially how TN would change my relationship to you. 

Forgive me, Body, because I didn’t see all that you have done for me and all that you do for me. I didn’t accept you for what you are. It took undeniable chronic illness for all that to change.

You see, Body, chronic illness showed me that you are a proud warrior. You are magnificent, strong, and resilient in ways I was too blind to before. Every second of every day, you fight for me. Using your inherent intelligence, you are constantly regenerating yourself. You keep entire galaxies of cells and systems alive within your borders. You do your best to protect me from the relentless pain TN assaults my body with, sometimes while also fighting the other wrongs you’ve been afflicted by. And when it all becomes too much, you tell me you’re tired—so, so tired—and that you need rest. 

With all the compassion you can muster, you remind me that it’s okay to rest.

Today, I look in the mirror and see my home. The home that I was born into and the one I will one day in the future die in. I’m more able to find the beauty and humor in your imperfections because I see how you are ever-changing. You are never just one thing at any given time. There is freedom in that, even within the walls of pain. 

You may be a defective model, but you’re my defective model. It’s taken me too long, but I will never again take this truth for granted: you will always look out for me. I know you will never stop reminding me to look after myself, to focus on feeling good, to trust the wisdom etched in your cellular makeup, to love who I am in this moment and in the next. 

I will build shrines to you daily. We are both works-in-progress, but that doesn’t mean we’re unworthy of respect and worship. There is no more war between us; there is just the peaceful flow of gently co-existing, of supporting and loving each other for all the days of this life.

All there’s left to say is thank you, thank you, thank you. 

Love always from your ride-or-die tenant.