self-image – Little Journeys Everywhere

So as many of you who follow my blog here may know, I am a journeyer within the dark unknown wilds of several lifelong, chronic, and debilitating illnesses. I take more medication than I can even stomach on some days. Most of the time, I’m able to accept it and keep going, just keep on keeping on. Admittedly, I’m a bit too much to handle sometimes with how cheery and active I can be! But I like it that way. It makes up for the days when I’m very much…not.

The last two weeks (as of writing this at least), have been rough for me.

There has been sickness. There have been tears. There has been despair and heartache. This poem started to come to me as a form of self-expressive free writing during this period. Just like that famous quote says, I sat down at my keyboard and opened a vein. Figuratively.

What came forth bled out here on the screen in words and fragments, life and breath, thoughts and prayers. It was originally to be called Digging Your Heels In Deep at its start, but by the beginning, it just didn’t seem to fit right anymore.

A Heart Contested

I know why you’re here.
In this somber silence.

I can see you. Here.
Here in this quiet place.

You don’t belong here though.
You think you do
But you’re wrong.

You feel empty.
But I can see you
Here.

Your nails bite into palms
As you claw for breath.
You pull your pieces up around you like a cloak
Against the world.
An armor against it all.

Barbs.
They are simple to swat away.
Worse than those all,
Cutting deeper than despair,
Is the lack.
The silence.

They…ignore you.
You feel like nothing.
Just a breath in the maelstrom.
A wisp of extinguished self.
The ghost seen through the smoke
Of a snuffed out candle flame.

You are wrong, you know.

These dark days will soon pass into the West.
They wash away.
Like you wish you could.
Wash it all down the drain
Until there’s nothing left but gleaming bone.
Nothing left to care.

To care so, so fucking much.

This shadow too will light,
Even though this gloom obscures
Oppresses from every side
And every angle.

You can make it through.
You are stronger than you know,
Than anyone can realize.
The secret power you hold inside
Of your tiny, helplessly beating heart,
Will outstrip all of the night that
Smothers in from all around.

You are the light that carries through the pitch.
Tenebrae crushes in on you
But it will not overcome.

Your hands may be shaking but
Your foundation is strong.
Neither will you crumble
Beneath all of the worlds
Cold
Crumbling
Decaying
Wrongs.

I hope all of you were able to take something from this though I don’t pretend to know what it is or should be. I think that’s how art is suppose to be though. It’s a lot like watching your baby grow into a child. One day they are being nestled snuggly into your arms and you’re silently promising them you’ll never let them go. Then the next, you’re watching them climb a tree, jump from the third porch step so proudly, or take off on their bike all alone. You watch them dare to dream and become day by day someone so wonderful, so utterly and completely more than you could ever imagine.

I guess, in that line, if they say that children are an imitation of their parents and that art is the imitation of life, being a mother is the best way that art has imitated in my life. After all, my daughter, my treasure, my gift, is my greatest masterpiece of all.

With Peace and Passion.

Ta!

I’ve struggled with how to start this post but I know that it’s something that has to be done. All of those little “I am” statements and thought stops my therapist taught me can’t stop this train from a-rolling, so here we go. For those with sensitive natures or struggles of your own: DISORDERED EATING TRIGGER WARNING.

I struggle.

I struggle with my self image and I struggle with how I view my body. I struggle with the shame of it, the failure. I have for more years than I care to tally up. I’m far more accustomed and comfortable either loathing my body or simply ignoring it out of sheer necessity. Like many of you ladies and gents out there, I have been down that long dark path that marks itself only by calorie counts and numbers on a scale.

I am.

Am I? When a trigger hits you, it makes you feel like half of a person. As if half of you is suddenly locked away in some other weightless world.

For six years, I struggled with two different eating disorders.

I survived. I got through it.

But illness like that leaves a residue behind. Like some slimy, oily, trailing thing on the inside of your head, in your ribcage. In your stomach.

I tell people that surviving an eating disorder is like being an alcoholic. Even though you go into recovery, slide into an unexpected and delirious remission, it’s always there. It’s always a danger and it marks the entirety of your life. How do you balance hating/craving/fearing the very thing you need to live?

You may be recovered, but you will always be an addict.

Addicted to the sensation, the swooping joy of another pound post and another meal evaded. To the sweetly intoxicating ability to dig out the very root of yourself beneath your skin. The tightness of skin over bone and the pounding of blood in your ears, heart hammering away weakly, just by going up the stairs. The danger of a relapse will always be there, lurking in the dark beneath your eyelids.

Even years later, it’s not…like a little thing. It isn’t something that is easily and simply dismissed. Easily put away. You try to stay as distracted and busy as possible so you don’t have the time or energy to think about it. You try to stay one thousand feet away from any trigger at all times and eventually, it almost starts to feel like you were never sick to begin with. Like you’re really the princess in glass slippers instead of the downtrodden girl in the cellar with the cinders. Always, that demon is there on your back.

Standing on that scale is just for the doctors, right?

Just one more. One more. Maybe two?

Maybe I’ll stop tomorrow.

If I do those crunches, what if I don’t want to stop?

I can always work off that cake, right?

My hands are shaking… That’s good. Eating? Eating is bad.

We’re all so use to hiding it. Hiding the embarrassment, the shame, the sick parts of ourselves. We tuck in the edges of ourselves and hope no one notices so we can (not) handle it on our own. We don’t have to do it alone, though. There are people who love you. There are people who love me too. Even if they don’t exactly know what it all means in your own head, they can still be a supportive presence when the world gets too dark to take anymore.

When those triggers start to feel too big, reach out. Find a friend, a sibling, a stranger even, that can distract you or maybe that could just sit and listen.

I like to engross myself in a good book or an activity that engages my brain so thoroughly that those triggers are shoved right the hell out of the way. Sometimes, I step outside and take a deep breath. I breathe in the scents, the sounds, the softness of the wind, deep into my lungs. Slowly, I sigh out all of the shit and shame, the self hatred and the pain. Breathe it out. Take in the natural world around you and feel it settle deep within your body. Being out in nature is soothing and centering.

Don’t close yourself off from those you care about when those little thoughts start to weigh too much. When my own head starts to get in my way, I reach out to my best friend or my sister. Oftentimes, even my therapist. Sometimes I tell her my struggles, sometimes I don’t. But always, the presence of another makes that heaviness in my chest feel not quite so cumbersome.

If you are struggling with ED, depression, or sadness in your life, please reach out. You don’t have to hide anymore. One person can carry a heavy stone but together, we can move mountains.

With Peace and Passion.

Ta! ❤

Tag: self-image

A Heart Contested

This Is Me: Real Talk, Triggers & Starving In A World Of Plenty.