Who Am I Being?
“The quantum field responds not to what we want; it responds to who we are being.”
Who am I being?
I was staring at my computer, unwilling to change out of that horrible gray sweat suit until I felt like anything other than gray inside, when the truth spread like cancer in the pit of my stomach.
Who am I being?
The truth?
I have been a slave and laid my life down before false masters. I have treated my body like a dumpster, as if we weren’t inextricably linked, and it didn’t matter what I tossed inside.
But wait— I take care of myself in other important ways. I take hot baths, use essential oils, meditate, pray, read books that inspire me, listen to podcasts that lift my spirits and give me something to strive for. I’m not horrible.
But I have been someone who forgot what it truly meant to love herself. Whose health mattered less than the quick fix of a drive-thru window or the satisfying crack of an ice cold can of Mountain Dew. Who got so heavy it hurt to move so I found solace on the couch with a glass of wine or a pint of beer, and stopped caring about nice clothes in favor of whatever was cheap that covered my gut and butt when I bent over.
All the hot baths in the world won’t wash away the damage I’ve inflicted on my poor body.
I have been a shadow. A ghost. A shell. A machine on autopilot moving in the same direction, straight toward the edge of a cliff.
An addict. I have been an addict.
But who I’m being is not who I am, it’s just who I’ve been until today.
Grief and mounting shame followed. I mourned every cell in my body, the bones, joints, and organs that I battered and abused out of a misguided belief that food would save me from pain, that baked into every pizza crust was relief from fear, and that safety was buried at the bottom of a bowl of pasta. When I didn’t find what I was looking for I kept eating anyway just because I could. With everything I had been through I truly believed I deserved it.
Only I didn’t. I deserved better. My body was my closest friend, my most reliable ally, and all I ever did was poison her, then get more and more upset when she didn’t show up the way she used to. She wasn’t failing me. I was failing her.
It wasn’t the first time I cried over the mistreatment of my body at my own hands, but I hope it was my last. Sitting in front of my computer screen, the sickness in my gut dissolved into something else, something useful. Shame became remorse. Remorse became an apology. I thought all the methods of “self-care” were showing myself love, but I seldom actually felt it. Most of the time I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror and say, “I love you just as you are,” without lying or bawling my eyes out.
Until that day a few weeks ago, after the Arby’s in my gray sweat suit at my kitchen table, when I finally felt the love that no forced affirmation could trick me into believing. I love you, and I am so, so very sorry. I promise I will take care of you. I promise. Just give me one more chance.
What was I missing? Why couldn’t I ever stick with changes before? Because deep down I didn’t love myself enough to do better or try harder. My body, my own skin and bones, meant less to me than satisfying my latest craving, or swallowing years of pain with another cheeseburger. I used to think it was confusion over what my body really needed, or weakness in my fight against food, but in the end it boiled down to one simple thing: love.
When you don’t love yourself, it shows. When you start to hate yourself for how far you’ve fallen, that shows too. We don’t take care of the things we hate; we destroy them—or, at best, ignore them. That’s how I ended up here.
My body looks different now that I feel its pain. I want to help it, heal it. And I want to prove, finally, that it is worthy of all the love I can possibly give. I have been a cruel, selfish, irresponsible fool, but I’m ready to be someone else now. Someone who cares for, honors, and treats her body with kindness.
Someone who finally shows herself the love she deserves.