The Illusion of Health and Other Things

These past few weeks have been so exhausting. Not because I was working hard (though I have been), not because I’m still in mourning (which I am), and not because I desperately miss my family and friends (which I do). No, the reason is much more insidious than that. My body is giving me hell right now. I am utterly exhausted, ravenously hungry, and in agonizing pain every day. Thankfully, the pain medicine keeps it down to a level where at least my brain can sort-of-kind-of function.

Another oddly beneficial occurrence is my burst of creativity. These times where I am limited physically, mentally, and emotionally have often led to wonderfully creative bouts in which I complete my stories. It’s always fantastic. Though, this price has become far too high. I’ll be visiting the doctor soon to discuss my surgical options. I just can’t live like this any longer. I’ve discussed it with my characters and we’ve come to an understanding.

One of the things I’ve really been thinking about recently is my view of myself. Plenty of people think I’m younger than I am (which I’ll eventually be glad about, I suppose). They assume I’m the epitome of health. They rarely accept the possibility that my past could be as dark as it is, that I could have experienced so much more than they realize, and that health is an illusion for me in all its forms. Yeah, I know better. I know who I really am and what I’ve gone through.

There may have been a day…wait, no. From the very beginning of my life, I was unhealthy. My mother was stressed during her pregnancy with me. I was born two weeks late. I had a period as a baby (not a real period-I just bled because of an overload of hormones received from her). My skin is uber sensitive; I can’t wear most perfumes, I break out if I wear cheap jewelry (which is a nice way to tell if it’s genuine, at least), and winter brings about annoying outbreaks of excema. I have allergies out the wazoo when near anything with fur, leaves, and dust (but thankfully I can still devour some shellfish like there’s no tomorrow). My eyesight sucks ass. I have sensitive teeth and my mouth isn’t big enough for my tongue (there are permanent marks in the side of my tongue from my teeth). And you all know of my PCOS and endometriosis (kind of the whole damn reason I need surgery in the first place, in case you missed it).

The first time I was molested and abused, I was very young. Then it just kept happening and never seemed to stop. I haven’t managed one 365-day period without a repeat incident. Literally, not a single year until this one! That’s pretty fucked up. I still deal with anxiety. It used to be much worse but I guess practice makes perfect; I’m able to work through it fairly quickly now. I spent many years in a deep depression-to the point where I attempted suicide-both due to my life circumstances and the effects of my random-ass hormone levels (thanks, PCOS!).

With all of that shit, how could I ever possibly be considered healthy? For me, the entire notion of health is alien. What can it possibly mean to me to be free of any ailments, to not have a past that can’t be shared in polite company, to have nothing to worry about? No, I was not and never will be healthy. But I’ll tell you what I am and can be.

I am whole and not broken. I am strong and not defeated. I am full of love and life and curiosity. I am full of possibilities and wonder and splendor. I am queer and intelligent and perceptive. I am empathetic and compassionate and understanding. I know the difference between my pain and my personality. I am improving every day, learning and growing and sharing. I am full of hope, hope! I had never hoped for anything before. I’m not religious and I find no need for a god, but I am spiritual and I do believe in the energy and intent of everything in this universe. I am a survivor, a warrior, a conqueror.

I can be whatever I want to be. I can finally be fully myself instead of being buried under the pain or hiding behind my fear. I can be the person I always wished would save me, would love me, would care for me. I can be the best of myself. I can turn on the light.

I may write sporadically in the coming weeks, just due to everything with my health being settled. But rest assured, I’ll be back with my irreverent humor, sexy stories, and shameless plugs soon enough. I’ll be resting (as my boss ordered me to do) but I won’t be gone.

And for those who need some inspiration, do you remember me posting about Angie’s documentary? Well, it’s been released. You can see it here:

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