Mind/Body

I've written a few blogs recently that mentioned my relationship with my body, so I decided that this is something worth blogging about, considering it's something I live with constantly.

Perhaps there was a time when we were one, a time when we were young and happy and fresh. Somehow, I doubt even that. I feel like my relationship with my body has been wrong and lacking something since I've been alive. Some of these things I remember feeling when I was still in Russia, meaning I was at most six years old.  Still, no doubt that this was once just an afterthought on the periphery of my life. Today, it's a constant struggle, dead center stage.

I've never felt attached to my body. I've always considered it a vessel for myself, a trap, a prison. I sometimes thought that death and only death could free me from my body. My body didn't fit me. Sometimes, I felt like it was too large for me, I was like a rattle. Other times, it was too small, and I was squished. Most of the time, it was some of both.

My body developed a personality of its own. It would have mood swing: random moods, unrelated to how I was physically feeling or what my mental mood was.  And it was powerful. When my body-mood was at it's worst, my mind would inadvertently follow.  My body-mood could impact how I feel more than any occurrences, more than any emotional downfalls, more than anything else. I became a slave to my body.

Then, the real physical symptoms set in. Not the crazy "mood" stuff that for which I could barely pinpoint a physical sensation, but real feelings: shooting pains in my legs, arms and face; hypersensitivity; motor tics. I saw doctors, got MRIs, everything. But there was no cause. Conversion disorder: physical symptoms for psychological reasons.

The tics are the worst. It's real mind vs body battle. On one hand, there's the body, completely in pain, growing tense, a sensation, a desire to do something I don't want to do. On the other hand, there's the mind, trying to withhold, because if I do it once, I'll do it again, and again, and again, because these tics can and do hurt me. But the pain grows, the tension builds, my body wins. I move. And I know that I consciously willed that movement, only I really couldn't help it.

Now, there were days when my body-mood was awful, but other days, I would barely notice it, it was just in the corner of my mind somewhere, and I'd feel somewhat normal. It took me a long time to realize that even at the best of times I'm not in the best of states.

May 09 I tripped psycoblin mushrooms for the first time in my life. While my mind experience extreme euphoria and deep, scattered thought, most of my trip took place in my body. My body experienced what I can best describe as a return to normalcy.  Suddenly, we were one. I walked, raving about how amazing it is, that I'm walking, not my feet, those strange foreign body parts way off in some other land. No, I was walking. I was touching. I was feeling. I was moving. I was climbing a tree, a tree with the lowest branch so high up, I never thought I could dare climb it. But I did! There was so much I could do that I never knew before.

After the trip, my entire perspective on my relationship with my body has changed. I no longer try to battle my body every step of the way, but instead, I am working to become one with it.  It's difficult. My tool is yoga. Yoga helps me feel strong, powerful, and connected. Since moving to Boulder, I've been doing yoga at the Wesley Fellowship, and it's been great: the instructor is amazing, and it's really helping my relationship with my body. However, each step of the way is a struggle. Except for the occasional yoga-high, I still never feel in my body, and, at times, the gap between us is so huge, I can't help but roll up in a ball and

cry.

My Vagina

I went to see an amazing performance of the Vagina Monologues last night. That really got me thinking about my relationship with my own vagina.

I developed a very close relationship with myself when I was still very young. At about 11 or 12, I began touching and exploring my sex organs. Curiously, I began researching the female anatomy. I'd spend hours on the internet reading about the clitoris, the g-spot, masturbation, orgasms, and why it's important to know oneself. Then, I'd spend hours more in the real world finding my clitoris, my g-spot, masturbating, getting orgasms, and looking, with mirrors, at my vagina. Long before I even wanted to be sexually active, I already knew everything there is to know about what I do and don't like.

Still, my vagina and I are not especially good friends. Just the idea of "my vagina" sends me shivers. Why is that? Well, it's really all a matter of word choice.

My vulva I love.  My vulva is soft and sweet, it's loving and gentle yet fierce. My vulva is a beautiful serving platter, a shining silver tray.  My vulva carries a feast, a delicious meal prepared by some amazing chef. Before the platter even leaves the kitchen, that sultry smell makes your mouth water. This creation is not only delicious, but also gorgeous, and the sight of it fills you with excitement and euphoria.  The main course, the center of attention, is my clitoris. My sparkling phallus, embellished with nerve endings, hidden innocently under a little hood, but ready to come out, to look you right in the eye. My clitoris is a gift from God, a very special friend.

But my vagina? My vagina is the throat of a satanic monster. My vagina is the foreign body that bleeds every month, causing me to scream in agony - "Why? Why again?!?".  My vagina is like a flesh eating virus, quivering with self-hatred. My vagina does not want to touch or be touched, does not want to give or receive, my vagina does not want to exist.  My vagina is wrong. My vagina is a dark tunnel leading to a dungeon of torture. At the end of the tunnel are my ovaries. Those ovaries that send out some ominous hormones that determine my secondary sex characteristics for me. Those ovaries that, against my will, release an egg monthly, against my will inflict a bleeding wound on me.  Those ovaries that say that if we get pregnant, I'm actually the one who'll carry the baby or suffer through an abortion. Those ovaries are parasites.

Retreat, retreat! Back out, reverse. Let's get out of this awful place, let's come back to fresh air. Breathe. Let's get back to my vulva, that sits before you, that steaming meal, all the courses laid out. Dive in, indulge in all the flavors, more flavors than you've ever known existed. Or maybe hold off, just look at it for sometime, the way the meal is arranged, the colors, the smells. It's perfect. I love my vulva, minus my vagina.

Relapse

I have a history of adjustment depression, and I feared college would cause me to relapse. To tell you the truth, it didn't. Last time I suffered from a long-term episode of depression, not only had I just moved, but I was also going through a major heartbreak, and I still lived with my family. Living away from home has definitely made adjusting to college easier than any adjustments in the past, and my self image has been better this last semester than ever before in my life. I love my family, but I had long been ready to live on my own.

While overall my mood has been positive, I have had a few relapses, at nights, alone in my dorm. Sometime in November, I had my worst episode of self-harm since February 13, 2007. Still, that was the only one, and I tend to relapse into cutting about once or twice a year, so it's not so bad.

This break has not treated me well. Boredom is the worst, because it only leads to more boredom. My motivation has plummeted, and so has my mood. All my life, I've hated break, because, somehow, being away from school has always tortured me, and this break is no exception (though Thanksgiving break was). I would definitely consider this a relapse, but I'm optimistic enough to know that I'll get over it soon enough, I'm going back HOME on Friday, and tomorrow, I'm hoping I'll go skiing, which I know will help my mood.

I know writing would help, but I don't have the motivation to do so - I haven't written in weeks! Maybe I'll make myself write, maybe tomorrow. Instead, I re-read my old poetry just now. I wrote the best poems when I was at my worst, here's one that particularly struck a chord:

Butterkinves flashing screaming attention
plastic erasers paperclips bark
safety scissor’s new purpose mirrors childhood lost
after hallways and lockers and muffling cries
the closet door locks for the deadliest chore
red pen dances: art not on paper
but nothing a three dollar wristband can’t fix
behind the smiles and tears the make-up and blood
lies a heart that has never been bruised
selfishly wishing blood for his pleasure
designer panties plead tear me apart
the clock strikes a new day, she prays Good Night
-- 03.02.2007