I have a belief I use on friends. When they go through something life-changing like having a children or getting married, they get a year to talk about it whenever they want and at any length. Then, they need to cut back proportionally as time goes on. I’ve never had to invoke it because my friends aren’t the type to go on forever about, well, anything.
I’m coming up on a year since my medical crisis happened. Which is difficult to believe. I should be dead. I should not have survived one night, let alone a year. I am better than I was before it happened, which is bizarre as well. But does this mean I can’t talk about it any longer?! K says no. when I mentioned this a few months ago, she said I’m allowed to talk about it as much (or as little) as I wanted, however I wanted to talk about it.
I told her that mentioning it made me feel self-conscious because it’s such a conversation-stopper. It’s not something I can just casually drop into a conversation and not make it a thing. K said that I could talk about it whenever I wanted because it’s part of me. She hastened to add that I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to, but I shouldn’t feel like I couldn’t.
And, I get it. She’s right, but it’s still…
There is no one like me. I Googled like shit to find anyone who had survived two cardiac arrests and a stroke with little to no side effects. I found nothing. I can’t find any support group for people like me, either. And the sobering reason is because most people who have cardiac arrests die. Most people who suffer from strokes aren’t in any shape to chat about it.
I still haven’t figured out a way to talk about it. In the RKG Discord, I’ll mention a life-threatening medical event, but that doesn’t really got to the heart of the matter, either. I’m not sure it really matters, but I would like to be able to bring it up because it shapes my world view.
On the other hand, I can’t really offer it as a solution for, well, anything. Before my medical crisis, I hated my body. I spent years thinking it was disgusting and too gross for words. Same with my face. I hated looking in the mirror, and I balked at having my picture taken.
I had been told all my life that I was disgustingly fat and would be so pretty if only I wasn’t so disgustingly fat. No, the word disgustingly wasn’t used, but believed me, I picked up the inference. It would have been really hard to miss it given how much my mother hates fat people. Or to be more specific, fat women. To be even more specific, herself and then me.
I dealt with anorexia twice and bulimia once (during the first time I had anorexia). I struggled with overeating after that and for the rest of my life. I felt terrible for inflicting my horrifying fat self on the rest of the world.
Then, while I was in the hospital for my medical crisis, my medical team treated me with such dignity and care. They had to help me use the toilet and literally wiped my ass afterwards. They were respectful and did not display any evidence of displeasure, which was exactly what I needed in my vulnerable and fragile position (literally and emotionally). One guy was not warm and friendly while he did it, but he was efficient and quick with no attitude. It was just clear it was not his favorite aspect of the job, for which I do not blame him.
Being in this position and having such wonderful care wiped out all my body issues. The fact that my body carried me through such a traumatic event without any real lasting damage makes it a boss in my eyes.
Let me repeat that. My body endured non-COVID-related pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke without breaking stride. Brushing my damn shoulders off and doing my hair toss because I’m good as hell!
The first few months after I returned home, I was cocky as hell about my body and my face. I was cute AF, and I was not shy about sharing that opinion. There was a faint feeling of, “Should I tone it down a bit?”, but I quickly brushed that to the side because I had spent the vast majority of my life hating myself and putting myself down. I was internally apologizing for being so gross and fat, and, well fuck. that. shit.
FUCK THAT SHIT. This body is why I’m alive, and it’s sturdy as fuck. The world said, “It’s your time to die.” My body said, “Oh, hell, NO, it’s not!” I’ve been passively suicidal for much of my life. Definitely the first 25 years. I did not want to be alive, and I couldn’t see any reason not to die.
Once I started Taiji, that depression lifted a bit, but not much. I was able to reach neutral about my body. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it, either. I still didn’t want to look in the mirror, but I wasn’t wincing at every glimpse, either. I considered that an improvement and thought that was as good as it was going to get when it came to decades-long issues.
Then I ended up in the hospital. The first few weeks I was home, I was deep in my feels about how fucking hot/cute I was. It was probably partly the drugs, not going to lie, but those feelings have lasted almost a year so it wasn’t completely the narcotics talking.
I’m all that AND a bag of chips. I am thicc with two Cs, and I love it. I got two compliments when I ran to Cubs today. One on my hair and one on my shirt. It was a nice boost, and my impulse wasn’t to deny them or play it down. I simply said thank you and kept it moving, but, yeah, I agreed. My hair is great! My shirt was cute! You would be lucky to get with me! Ah, er, not the last even though it’s true.
Side note: I am thinking about dating, but here’s the thing. I really enjoy my own company and being on my own with only Shadow in the house. If I’m going to spend an appreciable amount of time with someone else, it better damn well be worth my time. Cocky? Hell, yes! And it’s about time. I’m smart, funny, hot AF, razor-sharp, into a variety of things, and I can carry a conversation as well. I’m empathetic, emotionally intelligent, and so much more. I’m a good date is what I’m trying to say. Whether or not I’m a good partner is more up for grabs, but I’m good for dinner and a fuck, which is all I want right now.
Here’s the thing. I was held back by false modesty before. Or rather, societal expectations that female-shaped people never talk themselves up or take up too much space.
It’s exhilarating to be free of that. It really feels like I’ve broken free from a set of very specific shackles. I’m worthwhile of living. I don’t have to justify my existence or apologize for taking up space. I’m here. No excuses. No justifications. No apologies. Deal with it!