The Body

Until halfway through 2023, it was something that got in my way.

Convalescence byCarl Olof Larsson

In many ways, 2023 for me was the year of the body.

For so much of my life, I’ve lived in my mind, my imagination, my feelings (though, I suppose, those are also of the body). When I work, I contort into whatever shapes feel good — hunched up, bunched up, curled, crossed — and then I stay in that shape, sometimes for hours without moving. I forget I have a body. Sometimes, when I’m really focused, I forget to breathe. I’ll actually catch myself holding my breath.

Consciously being in my body felt like a distraction, something I’d sometimes force myself to do, but with resentment — and often with repercussions. A new morning workout routine would sap all energy out of the rest of the day. A series of squats would tear into my muscles and then I rode the elevator the rest of the week because it hurt too much to climb the stairs and I could only lower myself onto the toilet by gripping the rail or leveraging the wall. I’d rest and then try again. It was always that cycle, tear and rest, never quite progressing.

I’d go on walks, sometimes on hikes, and spend the whole time itching to get home so I could do something.

My body was something that got in the way: of the jeans I wanted to wear that were too small, of the morning writing practice I wanted to build (at 4am) but had no energy for, of the pleasure I wanted to feel but had no patience for. For one week, then two, then three, each month, my body was too crampy, too achey, too bloody, too pissed off, too fatigued to do much of anything at all.

My body was something that cost too much time and money: the last time I saw a primary care physician was almost ten years ago, and their office made a billing error that took many stressful months to correct with insurance. The last time I saw a gynecologist was five years ago, and I had to call and email her for months to get the results of the tests she ran. The last time I worked out consistently, I paid more than I could afford for a studio membership and racked up credit card debt that I’m still paying off. It was a good studio, though. I felt good there with all the other women being in their bodies for 45 minutes before the day really started.

A couple of times a year, I paid to see a naturopath who did not accept insurance. I felt seen by her, and knew she was on the case of what ailed me. But I couldn’t really afford to maintain regular visits or the regiments of vitamins and supplements she crafted for me.

My body cost me dearly in clothes. I’ve always loved clothes. When I was very young, I would change outfits several times a day, for the pleasure of wearing as many different things as I could. Ladies from church would give us big black trash bags of hand-me-downs (my parents had seven kids to dress) and digging through the old t-shirts and sweaters, sometimes a worn bra or tight dress that I wouldn’t be allowed to go out in but would try on for the mirror. I can’t remember a time since high school, when I started buying most of my clothes myself, that I’ve been the same size for more than a year at a time. For two decades, year after year, everything in my life fluctuated: where we lived, where I worked, how much money we didn’t have, how much my children needed of me, whether I stood or sat for most of the day. And every year, I had to buy different sized clothing to fit the body I had. Usually I sold or traded to be able to afford this. I wonder (but don’t really want to know) how much of my money and time has gone to clothes that only fit for a few months.

My husband and my sons have perfect bodies. They are active and strong. Their butts look cute in any jeans. They can eat as much ice cream as they like — and do. Sometimes their hips hurt, after running eight miles. Sometimes their back hurts, after landing too hard from a jump on the court. Sometimes a shoulder is strained, after hauling a couch up two flights on their own. But still, their bodies work.

They can sleep on the ground when we go camping and not wake up twice in the night to pee. They do just fine with the gumdrop vitamins, when they remember to take them, no need for tinctures and herbs that must be timed to meals and hours away from coffee. For years I couldn’t even get them to shower, though now that our water bill is almost triple what it used to be, perhaps they don’t need to bathe so much after all?

I tried not to hate my body.

I did nice little things for it. I gave it baths, nice oil, acupuncture a couple of times. I bought a sleeping mask, a sound machine, protein powder — things I couldn’t buy for it ten years ago, or even three years ago. I posted and printed photos that showed a version of myself I didn’t care to look at; I didn’t want to be another woman who erased herself from her family’s visual memory because of shame about her body.

It was never enough for what I wanted in return, which was mostly for it to stop getting in my way.

Halfway through 2023, when my body decided it didn’t want to keep being, I gave it Wellbutrin.

Everything came together then. Not immediately, but over a series of months. I contacted dozens of psychiatrists and one finally returned my call with an opening. I got in at a CNP-run health center where the practitioners will spend a whole hour with patients, asking and answering questions. I got the right scans, the right diagnosis, the right referrals. I scheduled surgery and rode out three painful cycles with the hope that they would be the last ones that took me down each month. I trusted that insurance would cover these things, and that what it didn’t cover, I would find a way to pay for.

Even my depression became of the body, something chemical that could be dealt with by physical substance and not mastered by my own will. I wish I had done so much of this sooner, but this thing perhaps I regret most of all — that I had relied too much on my own will to get by, to claw along, to ride it out.

I had my first post-op visit with my surgeon on Friday. She is pleased with my recovery. She was impressed that I stopped taking the hard pain killers so quickly (they made me nauseous), but also said, I can prescribe something else. You don’t need to suffer.

I didn’t laugh, but I could have. Suffering this body is what I’ve been doing for so long that I couldn’t even distinguish discomfort that could be tolerated from real suffering that should be dealt with.

2023, for me, didn’t feel over until after my surgery. I didn’t make resolutions or set a vision for the new year. I needed that procedure to close the loop of suffering in this body. It’s a little jokey that, now that I’ve had it, I’m still in pain — albeit a different kind, that is slowly, slowly getting better.

I don’t know what 2024 will be the year of. But I think my body will tell me.