Sometimes I think about my body. Ponder might be a better word. And mourn.
I remember being 19. I was young, I was fit, I was active, I was healthy. I guess I was 19.
These days I am not. I am flabby and droopy and stiff and tired and, well, cushioned. I will not use the ‘f’ word or the ‘o’ word, although they would probably apply. But I don’t think that of me. I really still think of myself as that skinny, toned girl, and I get a shock when I see my reflection.
It really feels like that skinny girl is me and I am wearing one of those fancy dress sumo suits that I am not able, or not quite prepared to take off just yet.
And I think there is some truth in that.
Technically losing weight and getting back in shape is easy. A few steps: eat more veg, go to bed earlier, eat less junk, be more active. Boot camp it or little steps, whatever works, it all helps.
Right?
Or not.
Not so easy. Yes, that is how I should look after my body. I would like to look after my body. I guess I want it to last, and I am getting to an age where I need to seriously think about that kind of thing. I want to look good. People treat you differently when you are large and frumpy. You feel different, too. Well, I do. And of course there is also all that stuff in Corinthians about respecting your body and that your body is a gift from God.
Guilt…should, should, should…guilt,guilt.
Pass the chocolate. And the cream, too, please.
The truth is that I just can’t do that at the moment. I need to stop feeling bad about it.
What I have realised is that I truly believe that the world is a dangerous place. People are demanding. I am scared. For me, anyway, this is true.
I know that I am no good at setting boundaries. This is a major problem for me. I have realised, recently, that I have set up an insulation system for myself. I feel like the true me is buried deep inside, curled up inside a shell like a shiny, little macadamia. (Funny, I always visualise the shell like that, but do you know how tender the flesh of a macadamia is? Maybe the analogy is more appropriate than I had realised.). Around my little real me I see layers of protection, like the view across the countryside from a dun. Way off in the distance is my skin.
Yes, my skin is part of me. Some would say the edge of me. Some would even, quite sensibly, suggest that my boundaries should be further afield than my skin. But there you have it, it is my horizon. And in order to protect myself a little more, I make my skin further afield.
I have come to understand that it isn’t a disrespect for my body, that has me in this physical condition. It isn’t neglect. It is USE. At this point of time I do not have the skills to protect my emotional self, not in any healthy way, at any rate. I am working on this – it is quite a project and that is why I have medical and religious professionals on board – but I am not there at all. In the mean time, my body has protected me. It is true that this has caused much wear and tear that would not have otherwise occurred, but it has protected me, none the less.
Has it been successful? Well, yes, I guess it has. It has kept me going, albeit, not always very well, but I HAVE survived thus far.
I need to go easy on myself. Not as an excuse, but in empathy.
I do not have the skills to look after myself emotionally. Some people do, but I don’t. And that’s okay. It is okay that I have been getting by the best I can. I am learning how now, but I am at the beginning. No one thinks a baby is useless for crawling, even though walking is more efficient. So I need to accept that in me, too.
Maybe one day the world will be safe – or at least parts of it will be. Maybe one day I will drop back into a healthy weight range. Maybe one day that skinny, young girl will come out for a run again.
Inside the Storm 