Enemies No More

 

I hated by body as a teen and young adult. I compared my body my white peers and couldn’t understand why my breasts and buttocks were different. Why were mine so much bigger than theirs ? My mother would try to explain that I was mixed race and shouldn’t compare my body to my white friends. My body was like my father’s. My father is Jamaican and his body was athletic and powerful. She suggested I look at other black and mixed race teens. I did and still couldn’t identify.

 

I have always been bigger, taller and thicker than my peers and hated it. Except for the taller part… I loved being tall and started to wear heels to be taller. You look thinner if your taller.

I hated my body to the point that I starved it. At the age of 23, I was 125 pounds. One hundred and twenty-five pound on my physical frame…I looked sickly many said. My body was no longer “interesting”… “You look better larger”. “You had curves”.

I thought my 125lb body was “the shit” though. I maintained this weight for 8 years. Not eating well.. starving myself, my body and my soul.

Even thin, I still hated my body. I hated it so much that I started to tattoo it. I thought that if I tattooed it,  I would find it more interesting and beautiful… I was trying to cover up the areas I disliked, mostly my back. I had a very broad back. I was told that I had the frame of a football player. Well of course I didn’t want to look like a fucking football player… *Insert eye roll*

At the age of 30 and more so when I was pregnant with my daughter, I realized how beautiful and powerful my body was. I also realized that I wanted my daughter to love herself and be confident in her body. I understood that I needed to be that role model for her. I started to except and see that I have a body like my father. I have a body like many West Indian women as I was meant to have. When I gained insight I realized the body is a miracle. My body got me through 10 years of working 20 hour days. My body carried and nurtured a human being.  My body has never broke when impacted physically.  It has never let me down when Injured and has fully bounced back.  And even today…my body is fighting two autoimmune diseases and defying statistics and Doctor’s diagnoses/predicaments.

At the age of 45 I am now a woman who loves her body. Who is actually in love with her body. I now except my body for all of its shape, dimples and curves. I recognize the strength and how powerful it is. I now tattoo it because I love it and for tributes to others as well as myself. I am proud of it and all that this body has gone through.

Truthfully though, I am really not liking this midlife acne and body acne bullshit but even then I still love my body. It is my temple. It is housing my soul and protecting it. It never fails me during yoga and even though my body is now disabled it is still a powerhouse. My body has become one of the loves of my life.

Live anyway and love yourself …

 

 

 

 

Why I fight …

It’s easier to give in. Move from doctor appointment to doctor appointment, take med after
Med. Maybe only work part time, or not at all. Stop socializing, stop living. It’s easy cause eventually those around you will give up and allow you to be isolated.

This may be your choice and that’s ok. It’s not mine. None of those options work for me.

I’m a fighter naturally… I have been raised to fight for a better life. I have to use the same determination to give Mr. Lupus and Ms. RA the greatest battle ever and it will be one of the hardest fights of my life.

Being a parent has it beat though … there is nothing more challenging than raising a child but that’s another story, another blog.

I fight for me. I deserve the best of all things. Everyone does. But I deserve to live and laugh and love. I deserve to work on goals and feel a sense of accomplishment. I deserve to explore the world and learn on a global scale. I deserve to challenge myself at all levels and see all of the strength that serges from my Body.

I fight to continue to be the best of me so I can be there for others.

I fight for my daughter. She needs a strong female role model. She needs to observe that a good quality of life is worth fighting for. She deserves to be a child and experience life as a child. I refuse to allow her to worry about my death. AND I refuse to allow her to care for me.

I fight because I only have two choices. I either fight or I give in. There is no third choice. So I would much rather fight for a life worth living, leave memories and possibly take some with me then die with regret.

I fight so I encourage others to fight too. I fight so that I can be an example to somebody else who is looking out the window hoping for a better life but dealing with pain.

I fight to encourage hope, amongst myself, peers and readers.

I fight For my husband, for my friends, for my family and for my soul. I was put on this earth for a reason. My life was created with purpose. Maybe my purpose is to be chronically ill and inspire others or maybe my purpose is to just live… anyway…

Keep fighting…

Being sick sucks

Many have said they believe I’m still using a verbal filter when I blog and they think I could be more raw … So here it is…

Being chronically sick sucks.

These illnesses give you a break but don’t ever go away. They are powerful and take away your positive mood in an instant.

I’m a very happy and jokefilled person. I love to make others laugh and laugh with them but when my pain gets to the point where I can’t ignore it, I am the nastiest bitch. I am miserable.

There’s not a lot of time between the transition once I notice the pain threshold is cracking.   I warn my husband before social gatherings, “when I need to leave, we leave”. Of course he agrees and we don’t take 2 cars.

Well…. From the moment I give the warning “its time to go” and being ignored…several times. It takes about an hour for me to lose my shit … I snap, then everyone is moving.                 Every. Single. Time.

Imagine a big laugh with a big smile within minutes turn into a very fashionable nasty miserable monster. My voice goes cold and loud, my eyes go wide and bulge … I start to sweat and my patience has no virtue…And then I leave. I barely say goodbye. I’m out. My only goal is bed…and sleep. I need to shut down and shut it all out or many will pay.

This becomes a jekyll and hyde situation. People in my company are like “wtf is wrong with her or what a nasty bitch”. But they can’t imagine or see that my insides are on fire and attacking my every joint and muscle. You’re not much of a happy camper when your eye ball is swollen.

They don’t see me dealing with a dull annoying ache in my body the spreads to others parts and intensifies as the day goes on. They don’t see that the laughter that was fun has turned into painful cheeks, teeth and bleeding gums.

It sucks and it happens everyday. Some part of my body is in pain.               Every. Single. Damn. Day.

I went to see my bestie on Good Friday. We have a blast together. She’s truly the only person I’m genuinely raw with other than my husband. We bitch about life using scarcism. We laugh hard. So… towards the end of the night we sat and rested. And when we got up… we moaned and groaned from the stiffness. I felt like a 90 year old that ran a marathon. I couldn’t walk. I had to shuffle to the stairs and rest in order to climb up them. Then I had to take one stair at a time. All while thinking ” ain’t this a bitch… I help my bestie with dishes and clean up and now I’m a fucking 90 year woman who can barely move. At least my hair looks good ( I just had it done). I can’t move but my hair looks fucking fantastic. If I fall down the steps like Aunt Bunny (Eddy Murphy reference), I’ll break something but my hair will be on fleek for the paramedics and hospital staff”.

Being sick sucks. BIG TIME!

It sucks because you want to have fun and you want to be social but in order to live longer, you have to rest. There’s all these limitations … Your body reminds you of these limitations but you are not known for that, your known as a party pooper.  The person who leaves early at every social gathering

How the fuck have I of all people turned into the party pooper??? Me? !! The dancer ( yes I can still shake my ass … for an entire song). The wear 5 inch heel shaker (this is an out right lie… I would literally be killing myself if I wore these now ). The shopalcolic with no money maker ( I online screen window shop now… It’s boring as hell). The find laughter in any situation jokester(this is my talent, my humour is demented).

Yes! I am now a party pooper who poops on da PAR TAY !!….

Why ??! Because my body is the ultimate asshole.

My body is such an asshole now that if I don’t practice yoga every other day, it makes me pay. It screams bloody murder. You can hear it ” you lazy ass, move, challenge me, or you won’t be doing a damn thing. I’ll make sure of it”.   And this is what happens…I can barely move.

I sacrifice a practice to celebrate an event and I end up the party pooper. All I get excited about is my bed. “Fucking fantastic, its what I’ve always aspired to be. ” THE leave events early PAR TAY POOPER ”

 

Ask for help… I hear this often and so I do but there’s also a unwritten limit with each person. When you’ve taken them at face value and ask for help, after a while you’ll hear ” what do you need help with?” Or you’ll get “the look” of wtf do you want now ?”

That’s when you want to respond with “what the fuck do you think ? I need help with something I can’t do. Obviously… that’s why I’m asking, jackass”.

I don’t use this response very often… It’s not very effective. Lmao. I choose not to ask instead. I go it alone. I’d rather challenge my disabilities then depend on someone who thinks I’m a nussance.

Being sick sucks … You want to live life at the same speed as everyone else. You want to go go go .. experience life and make memories but if you don’t rest … memory making can be limited.

But I try to live anyway. I try to get the best quality of life when I’m well. I laugh hard often. I challenge my body and its strength regularly. And… I rest when my body tells me… I give in. Because giving in means my quality of life lasts longer.

Being sick sucks. Not living sucks more.

Keep fighting..

Live anyway…