It has been many, many years since I've hated something about my body. I remember my teen years; feeling bloated, lumpy, overweight, awkward. We've all been there in one way or another.
I revisited those feelings during the baby years, although it didn't seem as bad because there were three perfectly adorable reasons for the lumps, bumps, and that one big belly scar. I also knew there were things I could do to improve the situation: Eat well, exercise, and save up for a tummy tuck to get rid of the c-section overhang that those 9+ lb babies gave to me. (No, I am not against elective plastic surgery if it makes a woman feel better)
Since then I've been operating under the notion that I loved my body. Every square inch of my 5'5" frame was just the way it should be on any given day. Some days I felt bloated, sometimes strong, or lean, or just blah. It was all okay. I preached this mantra to my teen daughter and sometimes to my family and friends, actually believing in my 100% body acceptance. . . until today.
I was practicing a new guided chakra meditation when the guide suggested that on inhale, I imagine the breath expanding throughout my body, sending love to every part of my physical self. I pictured little red rubies whizzing through the expansive network of veins, lighting up my organs and tissues with a warm glow.
But there was one place they could not enter. One place in the deep recess of my brain that was cold, black, and surrounded by an impenetrable wall. I tried to overcome the block, but didn't want to come out of meditation, so I let it morph into a feeling of overpowering acceptance that shocked me. I don't love all of my body. I began to cry.
I hate my brain tumor.
For the first time, I think I finally consider my brain tumor as a part of my body. It sounds strange, since it's been over four years since I learned about its presence. I guess I've always thought of it as separate from me, like a "dark passenger" (a nickname my husband came up with after watching Dexter).
Keeping the tumor separate meant that I didn't have to really accept it's permanent place inside my head. (Because of its location, it can never be completely removed.) It was annoying, like a guest who overstays their welcome. Today, I realized without the tiniest bit of my usual denial, that my brain tumor was never going away. My brain tumor is just like a lung, or a toe, or a knuckle.
I love all the other parts of my body. But if I do not love my brain tumor, and my brain tumor is a permanent part of my body, then I can't love my whole body. This bothers me.
Will I ever love my entire body again? I feel foolish for thinking that I ever did, as if the tumor tricked me by hiding undetected until four years ago. And then I tricked myself by denying its permanent place.
How do I learn to love something mutant and abhorrent that resides in my brain like a sleeper cell? Something that shapes my life so drastically? Should I even try to love it? Or simply accept that I can't?
I wish I could revert my thinking back to the tumor being a separate entity, just to make it easier. Then I could continue to send healing, cleansing, and purifying thoughts during meditation, but never love.
I can't be dishonest with myself. It's like a graphic photo that can't be unseen. I can't un-realize this realization.
If I were a skater on the surface of life, I would say that ignorance is bliss. I suspect, however, that as a sophomore swimmer in the deep pools of existence, I have a lot of learning to do.
I revisited those feelings during the baby years, although it didn't seem as bad because there were three perfectly adorable reasons for the lumps, bumps, and that one big belly scar. I also knew there were things I could do to improve the situation: Eat well, exercise, and save up for a tummy tuck to get rid of the c-section overhang that those 9+ lb babies gave to me. (No, I am not against elective plastic surgery if it makes a woman feel better)
Since then I've been operating under the notion that I loved my body. Every square inch of my 5'5" frame was just the way it should be on any given day. Some days I felt bloated, sometimes strong, or lean, or just blah. It was all okay. I preached this mantra to my teen daughter and sometimes to my family and friends, actually believing in my 100% body acceptance. . . until today.
I was practicing a new guided chakra meditation when the guide suggested that on inhale, I imagine the breath expanding throughout my body, sending love to every part of my physical self. I pictured little red rubies whizzing through the expansive network of veins, lighting up my organs and tissues with a warm glow.
But there was one place they could not enter. One place in the deep recess of my brain that was cold, black, and surrounded by an impenetrable wall. I tried to overcome the block, but didn't want to come out of meditation, so I let it morph into a feeling of overpowering acceptance that shocked me. I don't love all of my body. I began to cry.
I hate my brain tumor.
For the first time, I think I finally consider my brain tumor as a part of my body. It sounds strange, since it's been over four years since I learned about its presence. I guess I've always thought of it as separate from me, like a "dark passenger" (a nickname my husband came up with after watching Dexter).
Keeping the tumor separate meant that I didn't have to really accept it's permanent place inside my head. (Because of its location, it can never be completely removed.) It was annoying, like a guest who overstays their welcome. Today, I realized without the tiniest bit of my usual denial, that my brain tumor was never going away. My brain tumor is just like a lung, or a toe, or a knuckle.
I love all the other parts of my body. But if I do not love my brain tumor, and my brain tumor is a permanent part of my body, then I can't love my whole body. This bothers me.
Will I ever love my entire body again? I feel foolish for thinking that I ever did, as if the tumor tricked me by hiding undetected until four years ago. And then I tricked myself by denying its permanent place.
How do I learn to love something mutant and abhorrent that resides in my brain like a sleeper cell? Something that shapes my life so drastically? Should I even try to love it? Or simply accept that I can't?
I wish I could revert my thinking back to the tumor being a separate entity, just to make it easier. Then I could continue to send healing, cleansing, and purifying thoughts during meditation, but never love.
I can't be dishonest with myself. It's like a graphic photo that can't be unseen. I can't un-realize this realization.
If I were a skater on the surface of life, I would say that ignorance is bliss. I suspect, however, that as a sophomore swimmer in the deep pools of existence, I have a lot of learning to do.
We love many things, family. things in life, but we do not always Like them.
ReplyDeleteLove your body it is you, you do not have to like your brain turmor.
It's loving something or someone yet not liking the actions that go with it.
God Bless, you are a great person.