I've Made a Deal With My Body...

(Quick note- I'm good on advice. I know what I need to do, and how to live in this body. There are a lot of moving parts and adjustments being made, and due to losing taste/smell I currently only have a small group of safe foods. I don't need to hear what you think will be helpful, but appreciate your empathizing with my story.)

"It doesn't bother you what they say about your body?"

A friend asked after the third recap of tweets pointed at me by the darkest of internet dwellers- The Trolls.

"There are very specific things these people could say that WOULD bother me, but they've all missed the target so far."

If you ever want a group of people you have never met in your life to gather and make wild assumptions about your health, your body and your life... Do a very public press conference with the former leader of your Province.

I was ready for the trolls. I've worked in areas where trolls lurk. I've seen comment sections and text-lines where the trolls come out from under their bridges, and say the vilest things to leave any creature's mouth.

I was ready for them to shout "YOU'RE FAT!"

I knew they would think I sponge off the Government "YOU'RE LAZY AND DON'T WANT TO WORK!"

I prepped for them to question my hair colour "SHE'S A PURPLE-HAIRED LIBERAL!"

And I was ready for them to question if I was actually sick or not "DOESN'T LOOK LIKE SHE'S SUFFERING!"

I told my story about getting lost in the grocery store, about losing my ability to paint. About days riddled with pain, and aches and stiffness that had never been there before. About not being able to do what I love, and how at 37, walking to the mailbox is a sign of a good day.

I didn't get into how each shower is riddled with purple cobwebs in my hands from my hair falling out, how I've never had to shop for compression wear before now, and I definitely didn't tell them how I can't follow a simple list of verbal instructions, or that I've googled "Cute canes for balance" in private mode after falling down in my kitchen.

The trolls wouldn't care, but I didn't get a chance to tell them that the body they are seeing and calling fat is approaching five of the longest years carrying the important bits of me through two of the hardest and toughest fights I've ever fought.

4 years ago, I sat in my therapist's office and heard,

"Plan on this taking at least 3 years."

A schedule. I liked it.

After the extremely sudden loss of my Aunt and Uncle a calendar was what I needed to get me through each day- Hiding at work to cry, Breaking down, PTSD flashbacks, Therapy appointments, weeping openly... And each night- With its nightmares, sleeplessness eventual sleeping pills and endless hours laying in bed wondering who would be next.

My brain held a calendar that flipped the days- Like a sign marking time since an industrial accident. 3 years... I could do three years. Leaving jobs, moving, court cases, life, major holidays without the people I loved, each day brought a new way to move forward.

2 years later, the calendar reset, and 2 years later, the numbers were back to zero once again.

It was after the second round of grief I formally made the deal with my body. I promised it that if this Ol' meatbag (a term of endearment, honestly) delivered my optimism, my heart, my creativity, my laughter and the flicker of joy I had way down inside of me to the other side of whatever comes our way- I will use all of those good things to give it whatever it needs to do it.

There was no formal signing of the deal, but everyone was on board real quick. My body craved comforts- the kind that sometimes only a Big Mac Extra Value meal can deliver. There were days when the only thing I could feel was the sting of a McDonald's Coke in my mouth. We deepened friendships and sought out connection too, but food- It's the easiest, quickest way to deliver some feel-good into the system. (It has been said MANY times in my therapy sessions "Thank god it's only food-It could have been pills or injected drugs... but food is fine.")

Then, COVID.

I spent at least 80 days in 2020 isolated from everyone. My initial case was mild and went under the radar (and un-tested) pretty quickly. But by the 2-month mark, the bed would spin whenever I closed my eyes, and the list of symptoms went from head to toe.

I plead with my body to make it through each day- Especially the days when I couldn't cry anymore. The days with no tears were the ones that worried me most because I felt like I could feel that the fight was gone. I made lists in my head of what would be the point of going to the hospital. I made lists on my phone of instructions for what I left behind. And I made lists for my body of all the ways I would repay it if I could just stick around one more day.

"I will take you to a spa, if you keep these crackers down."

"I will buy you a new blanket if you get rid of this headache enough for me to open my eyes."

"We can hug all of our friends any time if you will please just let me wake up tomorrow."

The negotiations were sometimes harrowing. Pleading and hoping to take deep breaths, to roll from bed, to be safe at home.

That's the part trolls will never get to know. They'll make comments on how much of me there is, or the shade of my hair. But they'll never want to know how strong that body they see is. It's too powerful for them to understand.

And because of that, they'll never get under my skin, close to the good stuff. The parts inside the ol' Meatbag that make me- Me. Those are the parts worth knowing and caring about, not the shape of the container.