I didn’t get hit by anything.
Before you ask, I’ve had every test under the sun.
I’ve had steroid-filled needles poked and prodded into my bones.
Illustration by Niege Borges
I’ve done enough stretches to qualify as a yoga instructor.
Hell, I’ve even had surgery to replace an entire disc down there.
I’ve been observed and/or treated by at least five different specialists.
Here’s me high as hell on morphine after waking up from disc replacement surgery in 2021. This is the exact moment I thought, “finally, it’s over.“Narrator voice: It was not over.
Apparently, the right moment was when I finally came to peace with my body.”
Apparently, the right moment was when I thought I had finally come to peace with my body.
And then that all went to shit.
I don’t know why I feel the need to take a selfie every time I wind up in a hospital gown, but my camera roll is now a fun little Rolodex of ugly patterns on itchy cotton.
Because I’m never not in pain.
Because my body did this to me.
I fucking hate my body.
I don’t mean to say that a positive relationship with one’s body becomes negative.
No, what I mean is that your body becomes a total stranger to you.
It’s just where I live except this isn’t my house.
Sometimes I ponder what it’d be like if I got evicted.
Here’s me high as hell on morphine after waking up from disc replacement surgery in 2021.
This is the exact moment I thought, “finally, it’s over.
“Narrator voice: It was not over.
Sounds likedepression, doesn’t it?
And depression comes with overwhelming isolation.
In fact, I feel the most alone when surrounded by people, even my most loved ones.
When I have to ask my friends to walk slower because it hurts to extend my legs too far.
Thankfully, I did recently meet at least one person who actually shares this experience: my hairstylist.
While Im constantly being reminded of my body’s betrayal, what Iamforgetting is who I even am.
I used to pride myself on my athleticism.
Sports were the only way I knew to channel stress effectively.
I lifted heavy things for fun.
I chased men twice my size around boxing rings.
My body was strong and therefore I felt safe and that gave me confidence.
I used to wear high-heel boots and traipse around bars, feeling desirable on Saturday nights.
I used to go on dates.
Once upon a time, I even had sex, and I enjoyed it.
I used to dream of buying a motorcycle and riding off into as many sunsets as I could get.
None of those things are necessarily true anymore.
So yeah, I’ve got a beef with my body.
This thing that carries around all my organs and gives me life.
This thing I have fought tooth and nail for years to appreciate and now would like to exit somehow.
How something like the opioid epidemic could spread so widely and so quickly.
He was right about the whole mourning thing, after all.
The question is: Will I ever get off of it?
Who will I be if I do?
Who will I be if I don’t?
I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
