My relationship with my body

I’ve always had a rather strained relationship with my body. I’m an adult child of alcoholics; mother, father and stepfather. And alcoholics don’t teach you how to take care of yourself. Just the opposite; alcoholics are too busy drinking to listen to any complaints we may have voiced as children. Crying and complaining were met with resentment and threats. “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about,” “Walk it off,” and my father’s favorite, “Don’t be a pussy.” When nobody is listening, you learn early to just keep your mouth shut. Grown ups don’t care if you’re hungry, or you hurt, so you learn to ignore those feelings.

Later, when my stepfather would slither his way into my room in the middle of the night, I became an expert as shutting down. I just closed my eyes and laid there; my body trapped in that oppressive space, but my mind was somewhere else. I think of it as “checking out,” and for almost a decade my stepfather helped me hone the skill of checking out.

This combination sharpened my talent for ignoring my body. (Full disclosure, I also am expert at ignoring my feelings as well, but that’s not the subject of this blog post.)

As I entered adulthood, I was a strong woman working in a man’s job, doing hard physical labor. It was brutal on my body, but I was proud at how tough I was. I cracked three ribs once — and kept right on working. I was covered in bruises, pushing myself far beyond what the men did, really showing the world what I was made of. The key to my success was my ability to ignore the bruises and scrapes, to keep working despite the torn tendons and cracked ribs, to ignore the pain of neglected teeth, ear infections and the flu.

Occasionally, something major would slow me down, like complete kidney failure, but sadly, I bragged about how I worked up until the very moment I passed out and had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital. Back then, I thought it was a good thing that I’d managed to ignore months of warning signs and pain.

And it isn’t just about physical ailments, I’ve always been bad at every day self-care. I eat too much of the wrong foods, or I’m struggle with anorexia. I neglect to wash my face, which makes me break out. I don’t take care of my fingernails, I didn’t wear make up for decades, and when I did, it was the bare minimum. I bump and scrap and bumble my way through life, rarely stopping to bandage or nurture. And when the ignored depression and anxiety became too much, I lashed out at my body, self mutilating with razor blades.

At least my parents had an excuse for taking bad care of me — they were drunks and drug addicts. What’s my excuse for treating myself this way?

So here I am at the ripe old age of [insert your favorite number here] and I’m just beginning to listen to my body. When something hurts, I don’t ignore it, I go see a doctor. I’m also beginning to appreciate my body (it’s been though a hell of a lot!)

In my endeavor to take better care of myself, I had outpatient surgery on my hand. I ended up with four stitches in the knuckle and a lot of bruising, but when the bandages came off, I found myself doing something I’ve never done before. I kept putting lotion on the hand. Such a simple thing — putting coconut oil on a part of my body that was recovering from surgery, but it felt so strange and foreign. And I can hear my long-dead father grumbling in the background, “Why are you putting lotion on that thing again? Stop being a pussy and walk it off!”

It makes me sad that it’s taken me so long to listen, pay attention and nurture my body. But….as my father also used to say….better late than never.