I have never had a perfect body. I can say now at almost 40 that I have never wanted one, though I don't quite remember if my 20 year old self would call bullshit on that. But long before this trendy "body positive" movement, I owned my body. No matter too fat or too thin, I stood naked in front of camera lenses in the name of art. I tattooed my body. I pierced my body. I suspended it from hooks. I used my thighs to keep rhythm when I learned to play music. I scrawled Sharpie messages on my skin for my own sanity. I endangered my body on carnival rides, with drugs and drink, walking home alone at night, in bed with strangers. And now I'm learning I endangered my body just by living queer. But those were all my choices, I controlled the uncontrollable. And I show off every scar those choices left me.
But now my body swells and shrinks with sickness. Something happens when you hand over control. When you know your body has been violated, and you've consented to it, but you can't quite put your finger on what has happened to you. Running your fingertips over black incisions, not knowing how eager you'll be to share them when they turn soft and pink. Finding mystery bruises and random bits of tape and missed electrodes. And just yesterday the horrifying discovery that something nefarious has happened to my belly button. You give yourself over. Forced to ask for help and company. Watching the blood flow from the inside out, collecting in plastic. Thinking about "in sickness and in health" and wondering how'd they know.
No comments :
Post a Comment