Where did the expectation come from that my body should run infinitely like a new machine, and if it doesn’t it’s broken and it’s all my fault.
A friend and healer reminded me the other day that my body is not a crisis (thank you, Jenny!) Although perimenopause/menopause definitely felt like one.
What would it mean to live in my body NOT as a crisis? What would it feel like?
I started doing PT this summer to prepare for a knee replacement (or two) and as I was doing an exercise very slowly, very cautiously, very not-as-I-would-have-done-it-twenty-years ago, I was explaining to the therapist how I had to completely relearn my body after menopause. How I am still learning it and accepting it even ten years later. How I can’t eat the same foods (gluten, dairy, sugar), drink the same drinks (goodbye red wine and caffeine), move the same way without causing some some “bad weather”—bloating/swelling/headache/pain—in my body.
My PT and his assistant, probably in their late twenties/early thirties looked at me with polite-ish horror, eyes wide, silently grateful for the gender they were assigned at birth.
Today I was meditating and thinking about swimming, and I caught myself canceling my lap time before I even made it because, well, I need to work, right? My body doesn’t need meditating AND swimming on the same day, does it?
How can it be that at 62 I still struggle to give myself permission to take care of myself? I constantly barter with myself for time to take care of myself, and……. why?
Produce! Earn! Clear your to-do list! Faster! Longer! Better! Higher! More profit! More profit! More! Profit! I have been holding these demands in my body since I graduated college. High school. Grade school?
I’ve been a poet my entire life. My profit margin already looks MUCH different than most people’s. And still, I hear “Produce! Earn! Clear your to-do list! Faster! Longer! Better! Higher! More profit! More profit! More! Profit!” echoing through my body.
But my body is NOT a crisis.
What if every time I swim laps, take a walk, sleep late, have tea with a friend in the middle of the day, make an extra therapy appointment, take ALL the personal days in a row, stare out a window for hours, pet the dog endlessly, read a book all the way through, say “no” more than I say “yes”, say “yes” only to what makes me deliriously happy (like driving 20 minutes to hold a baby goat last Saturday!) a deposit is made into a metaphorical account.
And what if once a month I got a statement from, let’s call it the “Love Bank of America”, showing me how much my metaphorical account was showing RECORD PROFITS, and how much RICHER I was than the month before BECAUSE I took care of myself.
My body is not a crisis. My body is a bonus.
Poetry heals. Love wins.
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