Reporting live…
From the corner of the basement couch with a full stomach. 5:30PM Monday evening.
A full stomach, which I’ve been careful not to get until now, takes me back somewhere. To a stretch of time when I used to shove anything I could get my hands on down my throat, and ritualistically get rid of it. So there is shame attached to a full stomach, not because it is, in reality, a bad thing, but because historically, it signaled an unthinkable act. The one where my head hovered above a ghost’s open mouth, and two fingers poured forth gnarly rejects. Not because my body rejected the food, but because I rejected my body.
I am so uncomfortable right now I want to make believe this isn’t happening. This isn’t real. I’m not actually getting better. Because to get better in this would mean to lose the part of myself I’ve held onto, been hooked on longer than anything else. It can’t be real because then my loyalty to the false god of gaunt will be severed. I catch a cup of tears in my throat and swallow them, too. This feels impossible. Sitting with the fullness. I don’t know if I can. I just know that I have to.
See, I’ve been made fun of all my life for having no boobs. I accept this as my body shape. And appreciate that it allows me to run without pain and wear low-cut tops without feeling self-conscious. But to think that my stomach might soon extend past the line where my boobs do, which isn’t far, is unfathomable. I hear the wind outside my basement window rustle through the fall confetti. And I want to run. I want to numb. I want to hide and reverse out of this promise. Like that time I told a sober friend to please forget that I’d called the night before in a drunken confession, promising to get help and that I’d quit. Is it too late to go back? I don’t know if I can do this. Can you forget I ever said anything? Can I?
I can’t do anything halfway. I don’t. I refuse. Except cleaning. That I can do halfway. So maybe I overdid it today. Maybe I did eat too much. I honestly have no idea. Because I don’t know if I know how to listen to my body. Not really. Sure, I taught yoga for eight years. I told people to do what I couldn’t, “Listen to your body. Close your eyes and attune yourself to its subtle messages. Breathe baby, breathe.” I taught yoga so I could pretend myself into being what I wasn’t ready to be yet. What I’m still trying to be.
After 10 minutes of sitting in the fire of discomfort and resisting the urge to run, to be distracted by social media, to prompt a text from a friend, to sidetrack my fear and anxiety over this, Isla skips down the basement stairs and sits down next to me on the couch. I draw hearts and stars and smiley faces on her back while she closes her eyes then guesses onto white sheets of printer paper in light brown pencil color. The therapist told me bilateral stimulation would help soothe and regulate her nervous system. So we practice grounding into the moment together. Because some days life is just hard.
I carry her upstairs while her head rests in the crook of my neck. I know there will come a day when I won’t do this anymore. And a pang of sadness shimmies across my heart. We find pajamas and snuggle into bed. I pull “Witches of Brooklyn” off the shelf and sandwich myself between them. Isla is asleep in seconds. One arm across my belly. India nestles her head on my shoulder for optimal viewing. And the closeness settles me. My daughters find ways to fit themselves into the contours of my body and rest there. In comfort and safety. I am confident that one day, I will be able to do the same.