The Truth

I lied about something in yesterday’s post and it’s been nagging at me. I contemplated going back and editing, which I may do for future versions, but since this is a blog and part of my writing exposure, I decided to write out my process here instead. What was the lie? Last paragraph, toward the end where I wrote “I started to hate my body.” The truth is I started to hate my body much earlier in life. Last night, as I braced in bed trying to find a comfortable position with the pain, I traced back to when the battle with my body really began. I can see an abrupt break between me and my body when I was around 13. The body had been leading the way for several years before that. I can probably track back to about age 7. From 7 to 13 the body was on a journey that this very active spirit seemed to love and hate. 


I’ve never had what would be termed, body image disorder. I’ve never had an eating disorder. I’ve never had body dysmorphic disorder.  That’s not what the hatred was about for me. I know many people who struggle with these disorders, including an old boyfriend who was handsome, kind, smart, funny, generous, loving, and plagued with an obsessive negative body image. It was like having a third person in the relationship that I could never make happy. It heightened my awareness and sensitivity to the many people around me that were silently suffering with these issues. While they weren’t always talking about it, I sensed it.


People with these experiences and labels (I HATE THESE LABELS) are drawn to me, and I sense them with an acute level of magnetic electricity: victims of physical trauma, victims of sexual trauma, victims of emotional/psychological trauma, perpetrators of trauma,  people labeled as being "on the spectrum", and people with schizophrenia. I believe we have been intermingling for lifetimes, and will continue to consciously or unconsciously. What’s that about? Stick around. I intend to examine the origin of these senses and shadow attractions.


Here is where the writing gets tricky. I want to write my truth, and I don’t live in isolation. I want to tell my story, publicly, because I know it’s the next layer of healing for me. What I also know is that specific people have requested that they not be referred to in public spaces, and some important characters in my story are not in positions to grant or deny permission. What’s fair? I’ve written, and will continue to write my truth and keep it in notebooks that only I can see, or share occasionally in confidential group settings. One day I will be able to share more widely. Until then, I’ll keep writing in notebooks, in type written compendiums, getting it in order. 


On more mundane fronts….


I submitted some poems and a short story to two publications yesterday. Contests and general please publish requests. It was an exhilarating feeling. The short story is one I’d submitted a few years ago and was rejected. I’d allowed some time and distance to pass so that I could take in criticism and revise. I re-wrote it and resubmitted. I said a prayer out loud. I prefer the original version, and will be curious to see if this edited version is better received. Just putting them out there to the big world feels great. More satisfying than most days working in offices. 


I did more research about my knee injury and am losing hope that it will heal on it’s own. Meeting with surgeon later today to hear his opinion. Will report more when I’m up to it. I had imagined having an magnificent travel odyssey that I could blog about while working on my book in the background. I didn’t anticipate this pain at this time. And here it is. Right - masculine/father - side. Knee - moving forward - symbol. The stuck spot in my knee is causing my nervous system to light up and send panic messages fairly regularly. I feel my circulatory system reconfiguring constantly to endure the pain. Can I be with this pain and not let it control my emotional/psychological contentedness with life? Can writing help me (that’s rhetorical - of course it can)? In the past I have allowed pain to unravel the whole. It has consumed my being. This time will be different. This time I am focused on health, love and healing. I will use this time on the sofa and in my Herman Miller wheel chair to reconstruct and rebuild.