I Forgot I Am Still Healing

I forgot I have issues, and that they can come back at any given moment, when I have decided to not take care of myself as well as I know how to now,

I forgot that this was once a part of my daily experience, that I woke up with acid reflux and would continue to fight it all day, with every influx of anxiety I have, adapting to the tides of butterflies in my stomach, until acid is the only survivor in there,

I forgot that I used to have to be hospitalized for this, and the pain that is now building, out of my attempt to suppress everything, all of my emotions, all of my anxious thoughts, all of what was crawling beneath my skin, making a home for itself in my stomach, and then working to slowly tear its home apart,

I forgot the feeling of acid creeping up my throat, I thought it was no longer possible, that I had already reached my limit for Emergency Room visits, that I had reached the depths of my worst panic attacks and survived them, that I put on enough weight to wage battle against this unseen enemy, that I had set myself free from medical study when I refused to go back to the doctor’s offices for more testing, when I refused to take their medication any longer,

I forgot that this is all related, that my depression, anxiety, and body are intertwined endlessly, I cannot separate my feelings and address them as needed, I have to take on the whole package, I have to see myself as a complete entity, strong enough and gentle enough to find the solutions my body desperately needs,

I forgot that an upset stomach is a manifestation of my feelings, that I have worked to suppress them for too many years, that they will rise up when I am least expecting it, and demand to be addressed,

I forgot that I know how to handle this, first a deep breath, then another, and one more right after, standing up straight and refusing to bend to the pains in my stomach, accepting they exist but refusing to allow them to control my actions anymore, making myself eat more consistently, stopping myself from the instinct to drink, returning to walking, making sure I am hydrated, and knowing that it will continue to take time to heal,

I forgot that learned what a panic attack was at the age of twenty-three, and that my brother had to tell me when I was having one, since I used to refuse to acknowledge my emotions, I refused to accept that I was struggling, I refused to take it easy, thinking that pushing through would eventually save me, that survival requires stubbornness and aggression, that I thought I could bully my own stomach into repression, when it was just attempting to function, my body was just trying to tell me that I was doing wrong, that I was blinded by emotion, that I still had a chance to change it all,

I forgot that I made that decision seven years ago, to save myself over my drinking habits, to save my stomach over my need for control, to save my mind over the standards that society offers, to save my body over my desire to succeed on paper,

I forgot this was a thing, that’s how good I was doing, that’s how much I learned about my body, that’s how much progress I was making,

And yet I forgot that I still need to be patient, that it took me six years to destroy my stomach, and it will take at least twelve years to completely rebuild it, and I am halfway there already, but I still have many years of consciousness to be practiced, I still have much work laid out before me, I still need to learn to embrace self-love constantly,

Since I almost forgot how proud I am for the progress I have made so far.

Still Healing

The tension on my forehead is building, as the stitches close tighter around healing, as I take a deep breath in, I am reminded of the extraction, the removal of cancer from my skin, the precise cuts, the sting of numbing agents, the steril smell of room as I entered, and the smell of burning flesh when I exited, the conversations I had with the doctors, as I was conscious throughout the cutting, I looked at the wound, making me want to puke, since I could see the open blood on my head, but I could not feel the effects, the dissociation of medication taking over the natural ability to feel pain, I wanted to know that I was the one being cut into, I needed to see the evidence that I was the one having cancer removed, I wanted proof that this was happening to me, because I had not processed it yet, I had taken it as the unexpected event, embraced the spontaneous timing of it, forgotten that I was the victim in this, I am the one who needs time for healing, I am the patient in the seat, I needed pictures to prove that I was hurting, an excuse to take time for healing, to listen to the doctor’s recommendations, to take my time, to be gentle to my body, and allow myself time to process, despite this being a long time coming, I knew I should have worn more sunscreen, I knew that I was acting irresponsibly, I knew I did this to me, that I would be in the doctor’s seat one day, taking my own recommendations, to finally practice being healthy.

Refurbished

This body is not broken yet, there are still ways to put it back together, still solutions to these common ailments, it still holds the power of movement, but it is still learning how to forgive my transgressions against it, how to recover from the hate I projected onto it, still denying that we do not have a healthy relationship, since I never felt hate for the way that it is shaped, I never cursed the curves that I was lacking, I learned to embrace the height that was handed to me, and I constantly relay the message that it is pretty, fitting within the confines of Western beauty, shaped in a way that aspiring models envy, naturally thin and pale with freckles, with hair that is constantly died a different shade of red, serving the woman who is viewed by society to be physically perfect, with a body that they should be jealous of, but they don’t know the internal workings, the conversations that are circling my head, they don’t feel the dread of waking up to another upset stomach, the constant battle between mind and the body I am still learning to love, the fight that I have always managed, between practice and reflexive habits, convincing myself to cut myself some slack, to love the physical form that my emotions are manifested in, the lessons that can be gathered with years of experience, to applaud the progress I am making, not towards a perfect body, but towards loving the one that was gifted to me, processing forgiveness slowly, practicing patience with healing, struggling, but not giving up on myself so easily, not giving in to the desire to escape this body, to curse it for the hell that it has experienced, for the alcohol I made it consume regularly, the smoking that stifles my breathing, for the disorder I associate with eating, the fasting I infict unintentionally, the anxiety that radiates constantly, the depression I have always practiced, but despite all that I have experienced with this physical shell of existence, the pain and doctors visits, the vomiting and emergency room check ins, the overwhelming desire to stop the physical pain of living, is outweighed by a practice of forgiveness, a patience with manifesting what I needed, reminding myself that it takes twice as long for healing, over the damage I experienced, whether it is self-inflicted or a consequence of my environment, it is still my responsibility to address, to look myself in the face and repeat that I am worth it, I can save this body I live in, and I can soothe the pain it has experienced, if I do not submit to being self-labeled as broken.

I Hope It Was Worth It

It was a shallow call for attention,

and the reason that I went home early,

a made up ailment,

that exists inside and on my head,

right in plain sight for all to see,

but no one is noticing,

no one sees what I see,

that I will be marred with scarring,

altered cosmetically,

now unable to be the model I never wanted to be,

I will never be ugly,

but my healing will be open and noticed,

commented on and made to make me uncomfortable,

my scar will be obvious and prominent,

one of the first things that you will see about my head,

one of the first things you will ask about instead,

what happened, what made that,

what did you do to deserve such a cut,

what can you do to hide it from view,

to not make others uncomfortable with the term cancer,

to not have to explain the surgical process,

to not have to share where I went wrong with living my best life,

will bangs be enough,

or do I need to invest in hats that cover my forehead,

will humor brush it off,

or do I need to take this process more to heart,

will my smile distract you from my Harry Potter mark,

cursed with basal cell cancer,

growing surprise crops of infected freckles,

ordinary spots turning into marks of death,

scattered across the skin that contains the body in which I live,

the spots I missed protecting from the sun,

the patches of skin bathed in UV light,

feeling so good at the time,

before life returned for payment,

a piece of my health in exchange for a sunny vacation,

a mark of death in return for a day spent lazily in the sun,

a reminder of the hazards of living in exchange for a relaxed consciousness.

I Never Asked For This

My healthy practices did not begin out of a love for my body and a love for myself. They did not develop simultaneously with a sense of enlightenment and I still cannot tell you what the meaning of life is. My quest for happiness did not begin out of boredom or restlessness, and I did not choose to embark on it consciously. I have no idea what I am doing and no clue what direction to head in. This was not a well thought out plan and it was not one that I was recommended by an enlightened individual. I had no idea what I was asking for when I invited love into my life and I had no idea that after the invitation I would have so much trouble finding it. I did what I was told to do in order to find illusive “happiness” — I repeated the mantra “I love myself” countless times, tried to find value in my body, and embraced my mind and the thoughts it has the power to create. I started exercising and paired my diet down to the essentials that my ancestors ate in order to treat my body like a temple. I worked a high end job with a well paying salary but took time in my work day to enjoy flowers. I sought to be proud of the status I held in life and for someone to finally turn around and recognize it. I spent obligatory time with family and friends, and reminded myself that I am told those are the moments worth living for. I wanted all the accomplishments and recognition for finding a happier path in life and I wanted to be a poster child of progression for others. I wanted to embody self-love, or at least I told myself I did.

I did not realize that I needed love in my life until it was almost too late. I did not choose this path to happiness, instead I was forced down it if I wanted to continue living at all. It was my only option besides suicide or accidental death and I saw no other direction to head in besides up. I needed tragedy in order to recognize that there is so much more to this life than I saw at first. I needed everything to be stripped away from me without a choice in order to realize what I really wanted. I cannot imagine that everyone who seeks happiness needs to hit a proverbial rock bottom first, but I did. I needed no other option but to learn to love myself, because it was the one thing I was terrified of doing. What if I didn’t find value in my actions? And what if everything I have done in life so far held no significance? What if I find that I have no future and that I have been over shooting with my expectations my entire life? And what if I discover that I am the one thing that is preventing me from being happy? All of these questions scared me away from ever seeking a truthful answer, until one day I had no other option but to face my fears. I cannot recall the day that it happened and I cannot remember the moment when I decided to invite love into my life along side the hate I always held against myself. I don’t know what made me do it, besides having an overwhelming feeling that life could not go on in the same manner it always had for me, otherwise it might be my preemptive end. I was terrified of forever losing a sense of what happiness is, and I fought out of a corner to rediscover how to incorporate it into me once again. I was not always terrified of love — but it was only once I thought I didn’t deserve it in life that I craved it most. I did not choose to find it, I was forced to in the end.

My Yoga practice did not start from a desire to strengthen my body and find peace of mind — it began because I had trouble breathing out of panic. My healthy diet did not begin because I wanted to treat my body kindly and only give it what it was meant to naturally process — it began because I could not keep any food down thanks to an anxious stomach and acid reflux. And my writing did not begin to flow out of me because I had enlightened ideas to share with the world — it began because I had so much in my mind that was unprocessed and torturing me that I needed a release. I was a terrified animal, cornered into facing love and it was a fight and struggle to get out of that corner of hate that I had grown to feel irrationally safe in. I did not choose to face my fears, they came to face me when I thought I had nothing left to live for. I faced the fear that I was sick and broken by proving myself wrong with yoga practice and climbing mountains. I faced the fear that I hated myself by writing down the exact opposite every day and reminding myself that there were aspects of me that I felt value for. And I faced my fear that tragedy had broken the person I used to be by asking myself who I wanted to grow to be instead. I would still say that I struggle with finding love and happiness in my life, but I know that there is no other choice but continue searching and following the path I have set myself on, because there is no turning back. That is simply not an option because that would mean the end of my life. I was so close to ending it before I had a survival instinct to keep my head on and chin up — and I listened earnestly to what that instinct had to say and clung onto it like a life vest in the midst of a shipwreck. I still have so much to learn, but I am learning to listen to myself and damn the opinions of others. I am learning that I need to find my own path to “happiness” and that no one else can share it with me. It is not a lonely path, but it is one of self-discovery and painstakingly slow progress because the journey is what I am seeking, not the end. I do not believe that there is truly an “end” to this search and I know that I will spend the rest of my life wandering, looking for the fruits of my labor to indulge in. I know that I will forever be growing and changing, and I can easily end up right back where I started if I lose track of my own progress. I know that this is never ending, and it terrifies me to commit to something so uncertain with no guaranteed reward, but the thrill of it makes me feel alive again.

Denial

If I’m being completely honest with myself: I would admit that I have a smoking problem that it is killing me slowly; I would see that smoking is getting in the way of other things I want to accomplish and making me lose motivation for things I once cared about; I would see that I am too hard on myself because I take the easy way out in many situations and I know I can do better; I would admit that I am lost at this point in my life and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself anymore and if I really even see value in myself anymore. I would admit that I am caught in a complex of my own creation and that I am my own worst and best partner for progress. I take ten steps forward in one day, and lose all of them the next. I remind myself that I am spoiled and that’s the only reason I created this complex, because I am bored and not willing to put down my vices and put in the work the way I used to. I almost feel as if I worked hard enough in my youth so it gives me a free pass to fuck off now. But that’s not the case. I have seen my progress slip away just as easily as my health and I convince myself that I can’t be bothered to deal with what life just hands me. I used to have motivation and determination before I discovered what a release intoxication is. But I don’t think it is a release for me any longer. I know that it is hurting me more than it is helping and I keep lying to myself everyday in spite of it. Part of me thinks I don’t deserve a happy healthy life, but the larger part of me knows that I have just been too lazy to pursue it lately. I am lost and have been for so long that I can think of no other way to live. I like having the excuse that I can’t do any better because it was not laid out for me in life. I long the path that is just handed to me and one where I don’t have to truly work at anything. I have convinced myself that it is alright that I am under achieving because I spent so much of my youth trying to over shoot all goals. I had to teach myself how to be less of a perfectionist and somewhere along the way I lost track of what it was like to be like that in the first place. I’ve allowed the images of my past to haunt my future and remind me of what could have been and what I never worked to obtain. I trust myself, but do not trust that I always make the right decisions when they are difficult. I don’t know who I am anymore and I am trying desperately to rediscover that, but allow the influences and opinions of others to derail me. I thought I was on the path to happiness by doing yoga, writing, and learning to do less harm to myself. I thought that because my health has improved and I have not had a vomiting attack that I was actually making progress. I looked back at where I came from though and am ashamed of where I started from versus where I am today. I allow the disappointment in myself from the past taint my future and never truly forgive myself for my past transgressions. Thoughts, words, and actions that I regret linger with me for years and I apologize to others for my selfish actions before they ever even take place. I know that there are those who admire me for what I have done in life, and at moments I can find a way to admire myself, but that is easily forgotten again in the face of another inevitable mistake that I’ve made because I’m only human. I expect so much out of myself that I know I will never be satisfied, but I also know that that shouldn’t stop me from trying. I have tried to rationalize with myself and lower the standards I am held to, but in the end my mind wanders further than I am willing to make my body go and I set expectations that i know I can never reach. I find comfort in being a failure somehow. Always succeeding in my youth set me up for impossible expectations and there was always a piece of me that wanted to be the child who fucked their life up and was infamous among my classmates for breaking all the rules. I was such a rule follower, trusting in the words and decisions of others to get me to the right place in the end. But as I grew older, I realized that those people I had trusted were just making it up as they went along. I trusted in the ideas and words of others to fulfill me and as I grow older I realize that they never will. I am attempting to blaze my own path now, but I have no standards to set it against and I have no idea where I am headed. I keep telling myself to trust in my gut, but my gut has been so angry and violent for years that I am no longer sure if it is really a friend I want to hold close. I have trouble trusting myself at all until I go to share advice with others and they seem to accept my words warmly and with deep thought. There are few who I trust to speak the truth to me, but there are many who I am trusted by for speaking the truth. The image others hold of me is foreign and imaginary in my mind, and it is hard for me to fathom the image of the older sister which my younger sister praises and looks up to. I receive admiration from others, but it never sinks in completely and I am always there to doubt their kind and supportive words before they can get under my surface. I could be doing so much more in life, and I know that despite what others have already applauded me on accomplishing. I am a lazy piece of shit and I have been telling myself that for so many years that I have actually come to believe it. I see no chance of redemption and I never give myself the opportunity to truly be redeemed. I work hard and try to appease myself, but in the end it is never good enough. I want the impossible and I will never be satisfied until no one on this earth has a single bad opinion about me expect for myself. And even then I will hold my inner criticism dear despite being exponentially outnumbered. There could be a million yaysayers in my life and I will still stubbornly be the only naysayer left. I cannot seem to forgive myself for something, and I cannot figure out what it is. Until I do though I know that I will never truly love and support myself. I rely upon others to do that for me so that I can continue beating myself down in opposition to their support. I truly don’t know what is so detestable that I do not want to remember or forgive myself for, but I know that there is something deep in my soul that will not allow me to rest until I pay it the attention it needs. But I am not ready for that. Instead I hold the hate like a close friend and refuse to let that familiar part of me go. Who would I be without hate? And who would I become if I only saw love? I am terrified of taking that leap and losing all sense of who I am.