I don't 'heart' my body, but I do 'heart' me.

My body sucks. It really does and I don't see anything wrong in saying that. It's broken and it continues to break. It has very few redeeming qualities, and really needs either a good kick up the arse or to be put out of it's misery. But I'm pretty okay with that. It is what it is, and nothing I do is going to change it. My body will continue to be an arse, because really it is the one thing it does well. But I'll be buggered if I am going to love it.

I am over being told I must 'heart' my body. That I must focus all my energy on this lump of flesh, that has arisen thanks to the crap shoot that is genetics and life. Of being told how I must relate to it. Of how I must embrace my wrinkles, my love handles, my saggy boobs etc. I am over being told what a real woman is. Real women have curves? Well shit, I'm obviously not a real woman with my minuscule mammaries and underweight body. Big boobs are in. Big boobs are out. It's about the bum, legs, ears, eyelashes, blah blah blah blah. Accept your body and all it's flaws. Love those flaws. Be a 'real' woman. Love your body, Dammnit! Love it NOW.

Bite Me! 

I don't love my body, but that's quite okay as I am not my body. 

I am not what you can see, or with the joy of chronic illness, what you can't see. My worth doesn't come from this broken lump of flesh. I don't care whether anyone thinks I'm sexy or hot. Whether I meet some continually changing ideal of a perfect or imperfect aesthetic. I don't care how you think I should feel about my body. My physical body doesn't rate highly on my personal schema. It is part of me, but it is not all of me, and it sure as hell doesn't define me.

This body of mine, healthy or not, is going to change with time. 

It will never look like what is shown in the magazines. 

It will never look like The Real Women campaigns.

It will just be.

And that is okay.

I reserve the right to hate my continually breaking body and the real world consequences of what happens each time it breaks in a new and frequently, disturbing way.

Because my value is not defined by this corporeal form.

I quite like the 'Me' that exists within this dodgy packaging.

Not despite of it. And not because of it.

What matters is how I treat others and how I interact in the world. My body has nothing to do with that.

What matters is whether or not I leave this world a better place when this dysfunctional lump of muscle and bone finally expires.

What matters is whether I can find joy and laughs no matter what this arse of a body throws my way.

What matters is compassion and tolerance and being in the world in a way that brings even a moment of light to others.

What matters is my spirit, or my soul, or whatever you want to call those intangible bits that make up the true essence of you.

What matters is being a decent human being. And that sure as hell is not dependent on whether I love or don't love my body.

I am not my body.

I will not limit myself and my possibilities, by focusing on a lump of flesh and bone.

I am me, and I heart me. 

My body on the otherhand can go self-fornicate.

Michelle 

I may or may have not been a little inspired just a tad by the fabulous and straight talking, Kelley of Magnetoboldtoo.

Onomatopoeia

Is there a word to express the last few weeks? Nope nothing that does it justice. It's just been one thing after another and 'Ugh' seems about as close as I can get. One of my favourite bloggers, the awesome Kelley, from Magnetoboldtoo, wrote a post about onomatopoeia a while back and it's stuck with me. Sometimes life can really be best described as a collection of ughs and oomphs and blarghs.

I coud regale you with the crapfest but that would bore you silly, I know it bores the crappola out of me. Drama sucks. Fatigue bites the big one. Because I'm a champ I even managed to combine that with yet another bout of laryngitis (is that the 53rd or 98th time this year?) and even buggering my right hand, kneading dough of all things. This has meant little in the way of brain functioning. Little in the way of responding to comments on blogs, or FB or Twitter. Little in the way of standing, or personal hygiene (luckily we had a rat die under the floor boards, or in the wall, the stench is too strong to pin point, so Eu de Dead Rat, trumps any personal miasma I may be generating).

Yesterday, I reacted maturely to my situation by sitting in the garden in the misty rain, sipping coffee, in my pjs and red, sparkly flats. It was my "FU Universe" moment. Today's body tanty would suggest that that was probably not the best plan of action when recovering from a bug, but it was good in the moment.

So on that note I shall return to the batcave and hibernate until the world is filled with rainbow farting unicorns and glittery cup cakes and margaritas with little umbrellas served by hot cabana boys, once more. Or till the meds kick in.

And because my dogs amuse me and the look on their faces is priceless.

Michelle

I've been listening to Florence on loop this past week. This may come close to trumping Dog Days are Over as my new shout it out song.