Resentful

April 27, 2019

Looking in the mirror, I don't recognize my body anymore. Stretch marks on my thighs from the adrenal tumor, a scar on the right side of my chest from the rib removal, a different texture to the hair that was shaved for brain surgery, the abdominal weight that I cannot seem to shed thanks to the tumor, it all looks so different than I imagined I'd be in my early twenties. My relationship with my body is different than that of my peers.  My body feels bruised by life and weathered by illness. As a piece of driftwood, being sanded and warped by the perpetual movement around it, at the mercy of the water and the shore. I suppose driftwood can be quite beautiful, I've seen it sculpted into art, yet most times I feel anything but beautiful.

There was a time I thought I was content with these changes. I thought my scars were beautiful reminders of my strength and that this altered body taught me so much, for which I was grateful. Adorable, right?

More compassion, more empathy, more understanding through pain and struggle. I thought I was happy. I thought I wouldn't trade it for anything - even the ability to eat ice cream more freely. But I was naive. And slightly delusional. Now I'm angry. And a little bit jealous and a lot resentful.

My body requires so much more work than it should. Actually, no, that's not accurate. My body won't let me get away with cutting corners like I wish it would.

I remember a time, not too long ago, when I could eat waffles at midnight and never exercise other than occasionally throwing a Frisbee or walking to and from class. I could drink vanilla cokes endlessly and stock my cabinets with food so processed that I wouldn't even be biodegradable anymore. I could stay up all night reading and still have energy in the morning. My mind could choose and my body would follow. It was a glorious life I wish I could have stayed in longer. I know what you’re thinking, “I could do that too when I was young, that’s part of getting older, maturing.” Sure, but I’m only in my early twenties.

Now my body sets the limits. My mind must ration my body's energy and abilities. My mind must attempt to negotiate with my weakened systems. My body determines the cost of every activity and I feel like I'm constantly bartering. No longer can I base decisions on how much time I have available to me, now it is how much energy I would have to expend. And the mental calculation is exhausting. Aren't I young? Shouldn't I have time until my body starts this descent? Where am I going to end up if this is where I am now? Granted, that question is assuming that I'll live an average life span.

I resent the time I took my body for granted. The time I abused every system, ignored the consequences of poor health choices. Because even though my diagnoses were not caused by choices that I made, I am having such a harder time adjusting to this new normal when I can remember the remnants of that previous feeling of freedom. Of feeling like my body could do anything my mind wanted. Of not ever stopping to measure the cost.

My body is different now. The same, but so very different.

And yes, everyone needs to be doing these things. Every single body needs water, nutrition, sleep, and exercise. My body's need for these activities isn't different. What's different is that the alarm bells for when I'm not adequately providing my body with these needs sound a little bit louder than most. I have built-in accountability in the form of chronic illnesses. While most able-bodied people can probably ignore the body's subtle signs it needs more water or would benefit from more sleep, I can't. My body doesn't understand the concept of subtle. It screams and demands attention as a two-year-old does mid-tantrum. I learn, as many parents do, to anticipate the signs of oncoming meltdowns, and adjust accordingly. I adapt and sacrifice to accommodate my body. I plan my life around the needs of my body. I sit down, at the start of every week, to schedule out the times I'm going to exercise, when I'm going to cook healthy meals, to make sure none of my commitments go too late into the evening. Every. Single. Week. My body comes first. And it doesn't even appreciate the effort.

And I know, I know that everything would be much worse than it is now if I wasn't doing this work. If I wasn't eating well and exercising and sleeping and drinking water, my body would feel so, so much worse. I know this because once I started doing these things I felt better. I felt like I could manage my symptoms a little better. Which is the infuriating part. I can't stop now. I should probably think more positively, that these habits will only benefit me in the long run, but I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to put a positive spin on this because I don't have a choice. What infuriates me the most about my body is that I no longer have the agency to abuse it.

So instead, I feel jealous of people I don't know, resent the body I have, and long for something I didn't realize I had when I had it.

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