For the past three weeks, my flat has been turned upside down.
I live in a beautiful West End let, and it was time for a kitchen upgrade. The Georgian-styled accommodation is slowly being renovated, but we knew this particular part of the flat would be a daunting task. It meant turning our bathroom into the only source of running water, our living room into a make-shift station for most of our kitchen appliances and utensils, and sadly, the absence of a washing machine.
For most, this would be a mere annoyance, not a complete cause for chaos. My body, however, has argued otherwise.
As the weeks drain on underneath this modern excavation, I’ve found myself breathing in the remains of what was as it is being constructed into what will be. It’s sent my sensitive immune system into a scurry, running itself in circles like some violent track training. And when she freaks out, she drags my mental health along for the ride.
It’s been this same song and dance for quite some time. I turn into an investigative pharmacist, devouring podcasts, modifying my athletic stride, cleaning up my diet, and reading embodiment literature like spiritual prescriptions for the soul. I’m a sanguine individual, and one who feels everything completely, so it’s a constant redefining of what my nervous system decrees too overstimulating. She’s a vacillating treat.
I think much of this stems not only from my battles with PTSD (I don’t say that lightly) and my need for control over the uncontrollable, but from my incessant leaning towards rumination. My innocuous daydreaming in my youth has morphed into this self-inflicted, obligatory dumpster dive into any bump in the road — and that bump could have happened a decade ago. 0 out of 5 stars, do not recommend.
All of this causes me to self-sabotage, to lose track of precious time, and to pick at scabs that just want to heal. My synapses live in rooms that no longer exist, in diatribes that left me emotionally (and once, physically) pinned to the floor, and in imaginary paths I did not get to travel.
One Sunday morning, while escaping the wreckage of the flat, I set off on a recalibrating run to the zoo (naturally). Bri loves a penguin and a podcast, so while my feet carried me to the first, I listened to the second.
There are a slew of therapizing methods and discussions surrounding rumination and over-thinkers, but this certain talk spoke to me as it mirrored the mess literally happening outside my room.
Dr. Robert Glover began discussing how our brains are like washing machines, and if we ruminate, it’s as if we are allowing the machine to spin us round and round, day in and day out.
“Practice being the observer,” he suggests. Escape the ravenous spin and take that step back; engage with your present self and see that those thoughts, whatever it is you’re fixated on, are only cementing you in a state of dysregulated agency. It’s a paralyzing place to be. And even though I’ve worked on this for some time, it’s not been perfect. I still get sucked in, suds and all, by the long-winded cycle that my mind capitulates.
I can feel that. My mind looks like the kitchen. But much like we are getting a brand new washer, I want to fix mine. We only get one.
So, I’m gutting and refining, methodically. I’m seeking out the inventory of my sanguine and generous character to pivot towards batting off the past pressures, the (at times) crippling anxiety that comes with chronic illness, and embrace the pieces I downplay — the progress, the triumphs, and the intense overcoming I’ve experienced in this incredible life I’ve been given.
I think I’ll be starting with the beautiful mess effect. For me, it’s a rattling mix of imposter syndrome and armoring up so that no one can beat the already bruised thoughts I have on my body. But, as I write this, I am wearing a sweatshirt my beautiful friend, Katie, gifted to me this weekend. It says:
You can’t hate your skin into healing.
I think it’s true about anything in life. Even though I am extremely vocal as an advocate and post things online and create content surrounding my health, it doesn’t mean it’s been easy in real life. My dissertation will be a testament to this, alluding to that existential question that floats around inside my head: Does hope have an expiration date? To share in the intimacy of the unknown, the bifurcation of being sick and being strong, one of which I hide behind in order to compensate for the other. But I am both. Both can live in one body.
I don’t want to assess it anymore though as sick/strong. I just want to show up as myself, this fumbling, soft hearted mess of light and curiosity where I can place every drop of my humanity on a plate and not grow fragile when some are not able to digest the entire meal — because there is nothing wrong with the meal. There is nothing wrong with me. My tribe will show up to the table and happily pick up a fork. That’s all that matters.
To reinforce this, I am once again posing for life art tomorrow night. It’s a stripping experience, literally and figuratively. I become so afraid of eyes on this body that it’s not okay. Hence, allowing others to gaze intently and draw what they see, allows me to not only observe but to be observed. And the best part: Each drawing is unique with a different perspective. Whether it’s the shading, the detail in musculature, or the sharpness in stroke, it morphs into this gorgeous reminder that this landscape I’ve been given can take many forms dependent on perspective; to not be afraid, but awake; to dance in gratitude. To soak in the gentle cycle.
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