IF

In 1981’s “The Kangaroo Communique” by Haruki Murakami, the narrator says everyone’s only wish is to escape singularity and be in two places at once. My body has always felt a few steps outside of my grasp. I am not sure if my mind is my own shadow or if I've somehow moved beyond my body and my physical form is just a trail of flesh tied to who I am. I wish I did not need my body.   

If I didn’t need my body, I think I’d treat it better. If I didn’t need my body, I think I’d give it away. Not all at once but in small increments. I’d give my head to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so everyone could appreciate my face. I’d give my hands and arms to the dreamers. My limbs would be sewn atop of their limbs and they’d reach out with their fleshy Inspector Gadget arms and grab anything they could imagine. I’d give my back to the broken and tell them to rise again. If I could be like Atlas and carry the full burden of the world on my back, I’m sure I’d treat my body better then, if no one in the world had any problems and it was all my fault. I would give my legs and feet to the storytellers and let them walk until roots tethered us together and they knew me in a way that only I knew me. If I did not need my body, I would donate my dick to science. Maybe they could figure out how something so big could cause so much pleasure and make my decisions feel so small. Once I've divvied up my body and shared every piece imaginable, I’d finally be free. 

If I had a free body, I’d probably be in the NBA. Maybe. 

PROBABLY 

I have not felt very good about my body recently. All the parts seem to be mismatched. My limbs seem skinnier. My stomach appears to protrude out a bit more. My shoulders slump, my back hunches, my butt shrank, my neck hurts. I feel like a grotesque amalgamation of sixteen different people, now more than ever. I am spending less time in the mirror, especially after showers. I put my clothes on very quickly and I find myself opting for baggier clothes. I am unsure if that’s born from style or shame. I probably do not love my body as much as I should. 

I have always had a similar body type to what I have now and I have never thought too much about it. As I got older, I expected a sturdier frame to sprout atop my skin and bones but it never happened. Sure, I got stronger, a lot stronger. All my muscles became more defined, I got taller, my dick got bigger. But aside from my face, I didn’t feel as though I looked different. And that did not bother me, at least to an extent that I would have considered notable. Everyone hates something about themselves. No one is completely thrilled with their body. Right? Probably? 

During my sophomore year of undergrad, I decided I was going to push myself through a self actualization process. I made two lists on two separate post-it notes and slapped them on opposite sides of my bathroom mirror. The left side was a list of things I disliked about myself and the right side was a list of things I liked about myself. The idea was that I worked on myself until everything on the left had moved over to the right. I thought that if I stood in the middle, I would be balanced. Most of the listed attributes were superficial. I hated my skinny legs and I loved my skin. I hated cheekbones then I loved my cheekbones. I hated when I was shy in situations when I wanted to be cool, I loved that I was passionate about so many things. Concerning my body, most of me was on the left side of the mirror, save for my face (and my dick). More things have probably pushed over to the left side since then. 

My roommate and I were having a conversation about fashion, particularly about what works for our bodies, and he said that I have the perfect legs for shorts. My spindly, bony legs? It sounded weird to my ear and that was probably because I have never considered anything on my body perfect for anything (except my y’know). Was my mirror lying to me? Or my eyes? Or my mind? Or was my roommate lying? I let it go by without any verbal comment. The biggest question that arose in my mind was this: would my body be my body if everything on it had found its way to the right side of my mirror? Probably not. 

MAYBE 

In August 2009, just before the start of my 8th grade year of high school, I first started showing symptoms of juvenile idiopathic arthritis. Seemingly overnight, I could not move as well as I used to. My knees were swollen and spasms erupted all over my back. This was the first time I felt as though my mind had left my body completely behind. I had always been a little clumsy, I was known as a kid who lacked coordination. I couldn’t even ride a bike. But this was different. I would tell myself to run or jump or spin or lay still and my body simply would not do it. At least not how I intended. Everyone wondered what was wrong with me and where this pain was coming from. I wasn’t sure. 

“I don’t know,” I’d always reply. 

Maybe the pain was supposed to be mysterious. I hadn’t fallen or had any type of injury. X-Rays showed nothing, MRIs showed nothing. Everyone was incredulous whenever I told them about my ghost injuries and how I had awoken one day with a body that wasn’t quite as good as it was the day before. Many thought I was lying or too embarrassed to say what had really happened to my legs. Pain was not supposed to happen for no reason. 

It took 3 years for me to be diagnosed with arthritis. It took the doctors a long time to realize that no external force had belabored me but instead my body had prematurely betrayed me. Maybe I deserved it. But after my diagnosis, I quickly got better. At least when I have access to my medicine. Something I do not have at this moment. I have been in pain for months and I think it’s making me hate myself. More specifically, it’s making me hate my body. My beautiful black body. 

It’s so much harder to be happy when it hurts to maintain a life. Cooking hurts. Brushing my teeth hurts. Laughing hurts. Sleeping hurts. I have had arthritis for nearly half my life now. Many of those years were spent in pain, sometimes intense and other times it is simply routine. Pain is a lack of knowledge and maybe my body wants me to teach it something that I truly cannot comprehend. That loss of information, that ignorance, is the thing that separates me from me and deads any connection I have to singularity. The biggest thing I am still trying to learn is that maybe I should love my body more, not less, when it is in pain.

🦋

published March 25, 2022