I like to say that I’m better than ever after my medical crisis. In general, this is true. I’m stronger and able to do more in my daily Taiji routine than before. I have a better attitude about life, and I am grateful for my bonus days. I love my body and think it’s aces for what it got me through. My ass is particularly entrancing to me after a life time of mourning how flat it is. That’s Taiji for you. It gives you curve where you didn’t have them before. Plus my thighs are thicc with two Cs. I’ve always had muscular calves, which I appreciate as well.
And my biceps.
Can we talk about my biceps, please? I tend to muscle, anyway, and since I started doing weapons, my biceps are nice and hard. I love my muscles to the point of distraction. Am I obnoxious about it? Probably. But, as I’ve mentioned in the past, I’ll take it over me hating my body any day of the week.
I’m eating better than I was before. Much of my depression and anxiety have dissipated. Before the hospital, I had a voice in my head that ruminated over everything that was going wrong or that could go wrong or that had gone wrong. Every little interaction was chewed over, and I remonstrated myself for, well, everything.
Here’s the thing about having low self-esteem. In a way, you’re putting yourself above other people. It’s a weird thing, but I believed that what I said simultaneously meant nothing and everything at the same time. When I told my brother that I was embarrassed about my mother going around talking to everyone about my medical crisis at the drop of a hat. He said, “Minna, no one is going to remember or care when they go home at the end of the day.” It was crudely stated, but he wasn’t wrong. What was a big and important thing to me meant little or nothing to the people around me. I saw it in the reverse whenever I talked with people. They told me things that were important to them, but it meant little to nothing to me.
I’ve gotten better about my self-negativity. I no longer think I’m nothing or not worthy of being alive. Whether or not I think I deserved to be brought back to life (I don’t), I’m not questioning my right to be alive any longer.
It’s hard to talk about my medical crisis without sounding weird about it. It’s not something anyone can relate to, so I tend to keep it to myself. But at the same time, it’s such an important thing that has happened to me, I can’t help referencing it. There was life before my medical crisis, and there was life after. There’s a bright line drawn in the sand dividing the two, and it’s the most relevant touchstone for me.
Even though in general, I’m better than I was before, there are a few things that are worse. I had not noticed them when I first left the hospital in part because I was so grateful that I was able to leave intact at all. In addition, I’m not young. Some of the things could be put down to mere age, but I think it has to do at least partly with my medical trauma.
For example. I was trying to do a simple math problem in my head. Someone was a certain age in 2015. How old would they be now? That’s something that would have been a snap before I ended up in the hospital. I could not do it in my head. I just could not. It was mildly distressing, but no biggie. Someone else came up with the right number, and it was fine. But that was not something that would have happened before I ended up in the hospital.
Once in a great while, I forget a word. This happened once every other day or so when I just got out of the hospital. Now, it’s less often, but it’s still unsettling when it does. Words are my thing. It’s maybe once every few weeks, which, again, could just be because of old age.
One thing that annoys me is that I repeat myself. I used to have a good memory, and I would be able to know if I told someone something. Now, I am not as sure who I tell what to. Ian has mentioned to me that I have repeated things once in a while. He says it’s no big deal, but I’m not happy about it. I don’t like it when other people repeat things to me, so I’m irked that I’m doing it myself.
I also don’t have as much patience as I once did for what I perceive to be not important. I am still compassionate, but I am also aware that I lean towards, “Did you die? did anyone die? No? Then it’s not important.” That’s not fair because there will be very few people (maybe none) who can match up to my experience. That doesn’t mean their own experiences don’t matter or are lesser.
Except.
Goddamn it. It’s hard not to want to impart hard-worn wisdom on people, and it’s even harder not to keep my voice nonjudgmental. Take the subject of women and weight. Oh my god. The amount of hatred my two cultures have against women who dare not be a size 0 is both enraging and heartbreaking. Gorgeous women who tear themselves to bits, desperately trying to make themselves smaller and smaller to fit society’s definition of what a woman should be.
Fuck that noise. No, seriously. I see women agonizing about five or ten pounds, fifty or a hundred, thinking that they are worthless because of the number on the scale. They think they are lesser or taking up space. They feel the need to apologize and to shrink themselves until they are no longer offensive.
You are beautiful! Whatever your size and your physical capabilities, you are amazing. If I could have one message sink in, it would be this. I would want women to stop worrying about their weight (even under the guise of ‘health’) and just enjoy their bodies.
When I was in my thirties, I realized that all these negative messages about my body was a way to keep me in line. If I spent most of my time thinking about how fat I was and how I could change that, well, then I wouldn’t complain about my repro rights being taken away or not getting paid the same amount of money for the same amount of work, would I? It’s a very effective way of keeping the patriarchy in place without having to do much on their part.
It took me fifteen yours of Taiji in order to become stridently neutral about my body. I still didn’t want to look in the mirror, but I didn’t automatically flinched if I happened to catch sight of myself, either. I say I was neutral, but I wasn’t. I still didn’t like my body or my face, but I could at least tolerate them.
Then, my medical crisis. My body bended, yes, but it did not break. It said, ‘Oh, hell, no! Not tonight, Satan’ and continued to live. Being in such a vulnerable position and having the nurses treat me with respect, affording me my dignity, and made me feel safe.
When I got home, I was in love with my body. It might have been the drugs talking, but I was positively intoxicated with my curves and my muscles. Especially my thighs, my ass, my biceps, and my calves. I have muscles for days, yo, and I’m not ashamed to show them off. I’m not as pleased with my stomach, but I don’t loathe it the way I once did before, either.
My face is cute AF, too, BTW, especially with my new glasses. I like my new ‘do, which is up in a high pony and then braided. Who wouldn’t want to get with this? *gestures wildly to my face* More to the point, I don’t care if others find me hot or not. I am into my looks, and that’s all that matters to me.