Human Shells

 It's late at night here in the Netherlands, and this is honestly a prime time for me to write. This is a special time where I am actually able to gather my thoughts and clearly set them out before you all in blog fashion and form. The irony is that not one of my Ritalin pills is active in my system anymore from the day, and yet it just works. So here I am. It's also the night before the Full Moon in Aquarius, which is the last super full moon of this year. I am feeling pretty good actually, all kinds of zen 'n shit after having just had a wonderful time of meditation and journaling. I really do feel good and peaceful. It's a nice change from recent weeks, and I am grateful for how much I am healing, growing, breaking through my own barriers and continuing along this journey of discovering the real me. It's pretty amazing, and I am in awe of all of my findings, especially the ones that scare me. 

If you know me, you know that you don't often find me exposing my legs to the public. This tends to ring true during summertime and probably especially more diligently during summertime. Because of this, my legs are honestly as white as the clouds in the sky at the moment, and they stand out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of my nicely tanned bod. But whatevs, right? I could probably go on for days, including massive tangents, to explain the "difficult" relationship I have had with my legs for many years of my life. They're not horribly thin. My thighs are wabbly, my knee caps have that extra layer of cushion, and both varicose and spider veins taunt me on the daily with their presence from thigh to foot. It's really been quite a thing for me with these legs. I can only remember maybe two or three times I ever accepted them: during my earlier childhood when they were nice, smooth and thin, during my college years when I was feeling more confident about my body and got lots of boys' attention for it, and in my early 20's after my ex-husband left, I lost over 50 pounds within 2 months from the stress & grief and ended up like a toothpick at just over 100 lbs. Outside of these moments, at least that I can remember, I have done everything I can to hide my legs and essentially hide myself. This is because eventually I gained some of that weight back, and my legs weren't as thin and "pretty" anymore. So during my late 20's and throughout my 30's, I heard nothing but comments like, "Jess, you should never wear skirts of dresses because you have very ugly legs." Yep. But apparently it was all out of love that I had been told this numerous times. Sigh. The worst part of it all is that I gave into this bullshit and actually believed it...for years. 

I suppose I could and should go back to the time of my middle school years when I was taunted by classmates and accused of being anorexic and/or bulimic because I was so thin. This happened mainly in health class after we had learned what those terms meant, and so everyone just assumed that I fit the bill. Their claims, however, couldn't have been further from the truth. Granted, I grew up in poverty, but I was able to eat just fine every single day. I am grateful for that. I could throw down a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream within a week, and I prided myself on this though it wasn't the healthiest of choices or accomplishments. I also ate very well by my grandparents, and memories of that beef roast with potatoes, gravy, homemade applesauce, and green beans still swiirl around in my head. Yep. I can still smell it all of these years later. I never went hungry even during the worst of times. But what I was starving for was for someone to actually love and acceopt me for me, and that included my body. It would most definitely include the time when I was like 8 and had a mullet, the time when I was 11 and sported the infamous afro after I forgot to water my hair down the day after my aunt permed my hair, and most certainly the time when I was like 13 or 14 and decided it would be a good idea to pluck off half of my eyebrows just in time for school photos. (...and yes, I have photos to prove all three of these happenings). 

I am approaching the bright, bold age of 41 in just 2.5 weeks, and that means something in regards to this body of mine. I have carried and birthed three children with this body, all three with some sort of medical complications that have had some major impacts on my body. I prided myself for not having had stretch marks after the first two, and then that third little booger decided to say, "Watch this!"...and POOF! Stretch marks on my belly, hips and thighs. How about the breasts that I had always hoped would grow to be round and voluptuous since I was a pre-teen after having been mocked continusously by a family member about my "mosquito bites"? Yeah, they never got as big as I had dreamed, except after having birthed a baby which then caused my milk to come in. It was like, "VOILA! This is what it looks and feels like to have curvage so enjoy it because by the time these babies are done, your boobages will be sucked to almost utter nothingness and be even smaller once the breastfeeding journey is over. Dang it. I've got these varicose veins that have unfortuntely gotten worse again even after having had an outpatient minor surgery to have them removed five years ago. So I will be going back to the doctor next month for a consultation to discuss having them all removed again since they've shifted to other parts of my legs and now into my one foot, and it's causing me quite some pain and swelling on certain days. Despite going to the chiropractor regularly to slow down the process, you can clearly see my lovely scoliosis back that is curved and often times quite painful. About a year ago, I also started experiencing some hair loss that even caused a spot near my forehead to start balding a bit. Oh, and we won't even mention the stuff that you can't even see with the naked eye, aka the chronic illness known as fibromyalgia that taunts me some days with some pretty intense and what feels like unbearable pain and exhaustion. 

Why am I even saying all of this? Like seriously. Why does it seem as though I am only tearing myself apart and degrading myself into nothingness and basing my worth solely on how my body looks? Because ya know what? This is the bullshit that I have had to work through during the course of decades to convince myself that it's all meaningless. Who gives a shit what my human shell looks like? Why should I give a shit that it doesn't look how society screams at me that it should? To be honest, I do give a shit what my body looks like, but it's not in the way you may think. Because ya know what? For the first time in my life, I celebrate my body. I love my body. I speak love to those "chub-a-lub" legs full of webs, I cherish those gorgeous breasts that provided nourishment for my offspring, I celebrate those stretch marks as the bad ass battle wounds that they are because that's what it was like to bring my three precious miracles into this world: a battle and a victory, all three times. I am blessed. 

Okay, maybe I am not entirely there "yet." But I can't even begin to tell you how much I wanna squeal with joy over the fact that I am finally in a place of really just loving myself truly and wholly. I am currently sitting in my bed with these summer pajamas on that I bought for like 4 euros last week. It's a tank top and shorts set, and I love it. I look in the mirror often and pinch myself that I accept myself the way I am and the way that I look. I have forgiven myself and continue to forgive myself for being so cruel to my body in ways of accepting the beatings of myself and others with our horrendous words throughout the years. I forgave them, too. 

I leave in two weeks for a solo holiday in Spain for my birthday. This trip has been in the works for months, and I am beyond excited and feeling so grateful that I get to go. I've booked myself this lovely little hotel with a pool not far from the beach, and my plan is to go, sit, rest, write my little heart out, and just be with myself. I will admit that it took me a hot minute to get over myself (aka guilt and shame) to even book the trip, but it really is the best birthday gift ever. I expect good things. I even ordered some really cute, highly discounted bikinis that I will be sportin' by the pool and also beachside in the Spanish sunshine so hopefully my lower half skin will start to match my upper half, and I will strut my stuff in confidence that I am beautiful just the way I am. I am "perfectly imperfect", and I wouldn't want it to be any other way because otherwise that just isn't who I am authentically.

So, if you will excuse me, I have some sleeping to do, some dreaming to do, and some affirmations to speak over myself to keep reminding myself that I am beautiful, perfect, lovely and accepted just the way I am. I've got some thighs to jiggle and some years of life to celebrate with my body as a reminder that aging is beautiful, and each one of our bodies tells it's own unique, magnificent story.

Sweet dreams, and goodnight...