A letter to my body

I owe you an apology.
Growing up, I never thought that knowing you was very important. A doctor always made sure everything was running smoothly, and if something was wrong, they’d take care of it — fever, diarrhea, injuries, periods, or whatever other ailment that made its way to you. I spent the better part of my life knowing that if you did this it probably meant there was something wrong. I also spent the better part of my life being confused and angry at you for not doing what you were supposed to, not understanding that that was your purpose. Although mine, I never saw you as my responsibility. So I barely listened to you, and definitely never tried to understand you. And you punished me for it. Or at least that’s what I thought.
Remember when I was sixteen? I went to the gynecologist for the first time. She asked me how long my periods were and I remember looking at her blank-faced. Puzzled by my look, she asked me if I counted my periods, to which I embarrassingly answered not really.
I had never seen anybody look more concerned for me than she did at that moment. After a moment, she put her hand on mine and said “let’s start counting our period days, okay?” There’s nothing like embarrassment to kick your ass into gear, and boy did it kick mine.
Over the next few years, I noticed that certain foods made you breakout, sluggish, constipated, energetic,… In my newfound knowledge I found that the brain was just as important as everything else. Stress is a motherfucker. As is fatigue. I’d get headaches, be sleepless, and irritable, without knowing that I was dehydrated. I’d have trouble concentrating and get winded easily, not understand that I was incredibly stressed and anemic.
You told me (for the most part) everything I needed to know about myself, and it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I realized that that meant listening to ALL of you. The moment I started listening to you, something amazing happening: I felt better. I knew what meant what, and I knew how I could fix it. I realized that this machine that I carry (or carries me) for the entirety of my life (at least until Ghost in the Shell becomes a real thing) knows me better that you know yourself. I may not be familiar with every nook and cranny, but being there for you just as you have been there for me is a hell of an amazing thing.
As a whole adult, I still don’t have this listening to you thing all the way down. And I probably will never honestly. I’m also certain that you’re punishing me for all those years spent not taking care of you. And that’s okay; I probably deserve it. But hopefully you now know that I am making it one of my life’s goals to literally and figuratively be present. Every bone crack, headache, constipation, cramp, back pain, and grunt you deliver, I shall receive. All of the regular and irregular poops, the almost clear pee, the naps/sleeps because I feel tired, the deep breaths, the bones, the nerves, the muscles, pink matters, and everything else in between; I am here, I am listening, I am syncing up.
But be gentle. I still eat with my eyes even though my stomach is telling me otherwise, I continue to stay up way later than I should knowing full well that I will regret it the next day, and I have yet to not skip workouts. But I will always listen to you from now on. I’m here for you and will always be, just as you have been for me.
Thank you.
