I wrote this in response to the dueling pressures I feel concerning my body image - a mainstream feminist movement that demands I engage in body love and a chronic illness community that often conceptualizes being sick as a battle against the body.
i. For a really long time I felt like my body had betrayed me. My physical symptoms, I thought, robbed me of my independence and my personally. I was so invested in my self-image as an athlete, as a goofball friend, as a top student. Those things made me feel good about myself, and how could I be an athlete or a goofball friend or a top student when I was stuck in bed all day? I was convinced that the only way I could really be me again was to get better, to be healthy. Of course, that wasn't true (and also, it was impossible - they don't call them chronic illnesses for nothing), but I couldn't help but feel like my sick life wasn't my real life, and that real life had just been put on hold for a while.
ii. I dated a boy who spoke a lot about attachment, about how being attached makes people miserable. Initially, I was put off by this. I am attached to my family, to my friends, I told him, and they are constant sources of happiness. But I started thinking about attachment and identity, and the concept clicked. I realized that I was too attached to my ideas of myself. More specifically, I was placing too much stock in my ideas of who my best self was, and under what conditions she could exist. The epiphany was simple: I am still me. Even if I can't do all of the things I used to do, I am still me. My life is not on pause. My actions and self-worth should probably reflect that.
iii. When I read sprawling rants about how someone's chronic condition has taken their life away, I am empathetic. People are entitled to their emotions, and the symptoms of these illnesses are no joke. If someone wants to express frustration about a skyrocketing heart rate or fainting every time they take a shower, they can and they should. Honestly, when I'm up to my eyeballs in pain or can't walk across a room without feeling like I've run a marathon, I do it too. Sharing is self-care. But I want to acknowledge and I want to celebrate that living with a chronic illness has made me more empathetic, more patient, more flexible, and better equipped to handle disappointment. It’s given me perspective and has made me more understanding about the suffering of others. I used to recognize all of this, but maintained that I would give it up if I could have my health back. But here's the thing: I like who I am, and who I am is a product of many, many experiences, including my illness. I used to visualize my Dysautonomia as a tumor attached to my body, connected to me but not really part of me. But that’s not right. I cannot separate myself from my illness.
iv. I have a lot of issues with the YOU MUST LOVE YOUR BODY rhetoric, chief among them that it tends to focus on appearance. And you know, I'm often in a fair amount of pain. I'm often exhausted, and when my symptoms are flaring I have trouble articulating my thoughts because my brain can't come up with the right words and my tongue can't get around them fast enough. But when it comes to physical appearance, I've always been more or less on board. The militant cry of LOVE YOUR BODY doesn't have room for such nuances, though. It doesn't consider them.
v. After years of being pushed in one direction and pulled in another, I have come to accept my body for what it is. Body acceptance. I think that should be the goal. Not a revolutionary thought, to be sure, but it's taken me quite a while to get here.
vi. I’m not telling anyone how to feel about their bodies, or that they shouldn’t be angry if they feel angry. This is not clear cut, and I do sometimes wonder if my body acceptance has come in part from my physical symptoms improving. It's hard to separate physical progression from emotional progression, never mind that I was 14 almost 15 when I got sick and now I'm 20 almost 21. I do wish the chronic illness community could move away from the battle mindset, though. The medical model of disability says that we are tragic figures who only have value to society if we are "fixed." Do we really want to encourage that? Do we really want to live our whole lives wishing everything was different? That we were different people? It’s ok to be discouraged, to be disappointed, to be upset with our bodies without acting as though they are separate entities with which we are at war. We’re not fighting our bodies, if for no other reason than how could we ever win?
i. For a really long time I felt like my body had betrayed me. My physical symptoms, I thought, robbed me of my independence and my personally. I was so invested in my self-image as an athlete, as a goofball friend, as a top student. Those things made me feel good about myself, and how could I be an athlete or a goofball friend or a top student when I was stuck in bed all day? I was convinced that the only way I could really be me again was to get better, to be healthy. Of course, that wasn't true (and also, it was impossible - they don't call them chronic illnesses for nothing), but I couldn't help but feel like my sick life wasn't my real life, and that real life had just been put on hold for a while.
ii. I dated a boy who spoke a lot about attachment, about how being attached makes people miserable. Initially, I was put off by this. I am attached to my family, to my friends, I told him, and they are constant sources of happiness. But I started thinking about attachment and identity, and the concept clicked. I realized that I was too attached to my ideas of myself. More specifically, I was placing too much stock in my ideas of who my best self was, and under what conditions she could exist. The epiphany was simple: I am still me. Even if I can't do all of the things I used to do, I am still me. My life is not on pause. My actions and self-worth should probably reflect that.
iii. When I read sprawling rants about how someone's chronic condition has taken their life away, I am empathetic. People are entitled to their emotions, and the symptoms of these illnesses are no joke. If someone wants to express frustration about a skyrocketing heart rate or fainting every time they take a shower, they can and they should. Honestly, when I'm up to my eyeballs in pain or can't walk across a room without feeling like I've run a marathon, I do it too. Sharing is self-care. But I want to acknowledge and I want to celebrate that living with a chronic illness has made me more empathetic, more patient, more flexible, and better equipped to handle disappointment. It’s given me perspective and has made me more understanding about the suffering of others. I used to recognize all of this, but maintained that I would give it up if I could have my health back. But here's the thing: I like who I am, and who I am is a product of many, many experiences, including my illness. I used to visualize my Dysautonomia as a tumor attached to my body, connected to me but not really part of me. But that’s not right. I cannot separate myself from my illness.
iv. I have a lot of issues with the YOU MUST LOVE YOUR BODY rhetoric, chief among them that it tends to focus on appearance. And you know, I'm often in a fair amount of pain. I'm often exhausted, and when my symptoms are flaring I have trouble articulating my thoughts because my brain can't come up with the right words and my tongue can't get around them fast enough. But when it comes to physical appearance, I've always been more or less on board. The militant cry of LOVE YOUR BODY doesn't have room for such nuances, though. It doesn't consider them.
v. After years of being pushed in one direction and pulled in another, I have come to accept my body for what it is. Body acceptance. I think that should be the goal. Not a revolutionary thought, to be sure, but it's taken me quite a while to get here.
vi. I’m not telling anyone how to feel about their bodies, or that they shouldn’t be angry if they feel angry. This is not clear cut, and I do sometimes wonder if my body acceptance has come in part from my physical symptoms improving. It's hard to separate physical progression from emotional progression, never mind that I was 14 almost 15 when I got sick and now I'm 20 almost 21. I do wish the chronic illness community could move away from the battle mindset, though. The medical model of disability says that we are tragic figures who only have value to society if we are "fixed." Do we really want to encourage that? Do we really want to live our whole lives wishing everything was different? That we were different people? It’s ok to be discouraged, to be disappointed, to be upset with our bodies without acting as though they are separate entities with which we are at war. We’re not fighting our bodies, if for no other reason than how could we ever win?
Maddy,
ReplyDeleteThis is very thoughtful and articulate. Thanks for sharing! I want to add that even without having taken into account chronic (or non-chronic, for that matter) illnesses, I have always had problems with the "love your body" movement. I don't think we should have to love our bodies. As long as I can accept or ignore my body to the point where I have no negative feelings, who cares if I love it? I think the complicating factor is that because chronic illnesses require you to constantly focus so much attention on your body, people with chronic illnesses may not have the privilege of "ignoring" their bodies (as I just said I do).
Anyway, thanks for making me think about this...there's always another element I haven't considered, particularly on issues like this one.
Claire