I need more of you than is ‘normal’, more than ‘healthy’ bodies do.
I’ve spent a lot of the past nearly two years resisting this truth. I want to go.go.go — I want to create and connect and craft. I know it’s ok that I want this so much. What I’ve finally been making some bit of peace with is that I can’t do as much as I want to do. I can’t do as much as society says I should be able to. There’s been a lot of tears, most of them in the shower because I’m finding this new truth hard to share with others.
I think, in many ways, I’m entering the grieving phase of chronic illness and that’s totally ok.
Hell, it’s likely long overdue and on the other side of this transition I sure as hell hope there is peace, strength and unlimited self-compassion.
I need you, Rest. I need to curl up naked against you, to feel the warmth of your body seeping into mine to ease the tension in my muscles so that I can more fully relax into you. This too it totally ok.
What’s not ok is when I try to push.push.push as if I’m living inside of a perfectly healthy body when i.am.not.
This past month or so you and I have spent more time, especially more random time, together and it’s been fucking great. The past six months have been really, awfully hard in this body. Distressingly hard and I’ve ignored your invitations to visit far too many times.
Pushing on when all I want to up is curl up with you has become my norm. Recently I’ve come to realize how pushing you away like that was a form of self-harm and neglect. Shame on me.
So I’ve begun [consciously] to listen for your invitations — the sound of your voice, your soft hand on my shoulder, your lips kissing my furrowed brow — and turn towards you.
I love you, Rest. You’re pretty grand and getting to know you better the past few weeks has been pretty neat. I mean, you’re really great company to hang out with and I’m totally stoked at our increase in time together.
Thanks for your unconditional compassion.