My Body Is Not My Body

My body is not my body. It has not belonged to me for quite some time.

It used to belong to me. In the days before I became known as "Mom." My body used to be wild and free-- free to have that second, third, fourth shot of whiskey; free to dance in dark bars and kiss in dark stairwells; free to stay out all night if I wanted, to see shows and to meet new people. My body wasn't chained to anyone or anything.

My body is not my body. It is now home to a nursling toddler and a developing embryo. My breasts are no longer mine to give to a would-be lover. They belong to a one-year-old boy who is up far past his bedtime. My back is not my back. It no longer bends and flexes in asanas. It now aches under the pressure of this creature growing inside of me. My arms are not my arms. Instead, they belong to this house, which has a constant need to be cleaned or repaired. My mouth is not my mouth. It is no longer available for conversation that extends past toddler level. My brain is not even my brain. It is no longer free to think of politics, religion, the environment, or even which outfit I should wear today. It only thinks of how to respond to tantrums and whether or not I'm endangering my child by feeding him this instead of that because my exhaustion level is at its peak, and I can't possibly bear to be at that stove for an hour when we are hungry now, and WHY have I not prepared meals ahead of time so all I need to do is heat them up for moments like this?

My body is not my body. It is more difficult than I expected to go from being free to being tethered. My love for my children is like nothing I've ever felt before, and yet the desire for my body to be my own again is overwhelming. I don't have the desire to return to stairwells or empty bottles. Now I dream of long showers and hot meals. I dream of sitting cross-legged and barefoot, reading books by the lake. Taking naps in hammocks. Seeing live music. Spending hours in deep conversation in a circle of friends. I'm made to feel selfish for desiring a life outside of my current one. A life of mental and spiritual growth. Like being a mom is the only choice for my body, and I'm no longer allowed to be anyone other than that.

My body is not my body, although I hope someday for it to belong to me again.

It Gets Better…. Then it Gets Bad Again

If there is one thing I know with certainty, it is that life gets REALLY hard to do sometimes. Even if you have had a relatively easy life with two loving parents, a dog, and a life in the suburbs, things can get hard, and sometimes you don’t feel like you have the energy to make it.

I’ve definitely had my fair share of trouble. On top of a long history of trying to hide my depression, I have been physically and emotionally abused by people who swear their love and devotion. Years of harbored feelings of regret, worthlessness, and misery still rush back at the drop of a word, and I am sent spiraling down into another chasm of despair that I rarely have the energy to climb out of. Frequently these feelings invade my current relationships, making them difficult to maintain, further exaggerating my loneliness. When this happens, sometimes apologies just aren’t enough to fix things. So I’m left wondering what to do to make my life suck less.

I wish I could give you a go-to answer, but if there is something I have learned through all of this, there isn’t just one solution. Sometimes, just getting out of bed feels like the biggest accomplishment of your life, and maybe it doesn’t seem like much to everyone else, but when you have been stuck there for a week drowning in sorrow, let me tell you, you have done well by getting up, and I am celebrating with you. Getting out of bed is proof that IT GETS BETTER. And you know what? It will get bad again. But that’s ok. Because the trick to getting through life is not looking for some cure-all or a Prince Charming to give you a happily ever after ending. It’s finding a way to cope in the midst of all of it. It’s finding a way to get out of bed even when you would rather lay there and die.

One thing that has always stuck in my head is an old friend’s word of reminder: “This too shall pass.” Everyday you have another chance at making your life suck less. Start with getting up, and the rest will come a little easier than you’d expect it would, until one day you realize that you made it through it, and you are that much stronger for the next time a shitstorm blows through. Remember: If you made it through this one, you can make it through the next one. Just hold on. It will pass. That, I can promise.

Be strong.

My ears are always open if a friend is what you need.