Feel Like Writing

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Chronic Pain post.

And a Really Real Weight post.

TW: Talk of body size and weight.

I feel like writing this morning. I don’t really have all that much to write about since yesterday, but sitting here in the cool mountain air, it just seems like the thing I’m supposed to do.

Especially since I’m the only one awake and the house is silent except for the humming of the refrigerator and my fingers on the keys.

And the occasional annoying tap tap tap of Siah’s nails against the floor. I’m not sure why that seems so much louder here.

Maybe it’s because there’s no quiet banter on the TV, the latest cooking show that we’re binging our way through.

Maybe its because there’s no quiet hum of computer fans, with my dual screens in front of me.

Maybe because it’s just more peaceful up here and her loud tapping breaks the silence.

I feel like it’s wrong for me to be on my phone or my computer, like I’m tainting this beautiful countryside with electronics that have no place here.

And I’m sure others agree.

But I’m learning that it’s okay to just go with the flow, to let my mind and my hands focus on what feels comfortable.

Within reason.

Today we’re supposed to go see a waterfall.

We saw it on our last trip here, traversing the icy steps to and from the beautiful rainbow of water that you could almost touch. Icy lines running down the wall beside us as water dripped down and froze. Icicles hanging everywhere.

But this time I’m worried about the trek, even though it won’t be icy.

My body isn’t used to carrying this extra weight. The thin mountain air makes me out of breath with even the slightest exertion.

Walking to and from the car will sometimes have me winded.

On top of that my normal pain levels are at a new high. On our drive here I felt like my joints wanted to explode, I don’t know the scientific reason, but I’m assuming it’s the change in altitude.

My knee is swollen and sore. It creaks and wobbles as I make my way around. I remarked yesterday that I’m starting to waddle like an old fat woman.

I feel like an old fat woman.

None of the chairs in this cottage seem like they are the right height or size. The sofa is too low, I strain and rock trying to get up out of it. The chairs at the antique table are too skinny, the sides digging into my thighs.

This time I trusted the bench that runs around two sides of the table. I have to sit carefully to make sure something will handle my weight.

“You’re pull up two chairs kinda big” my dad once said to me.

I was smaller than I am now.

But the bench, with its wide, flat, surface, seems to be the answer.

Even though I had to pull the table away from it to fit.

Maybe my body will relax enough that I can make this journey today.

The view will be worth it.

It’s hard writing about my weight, harder than writing about my mental health. I know lots of people who struggle with mental health.

I don’t know many people my size.

Yesterday we saw a commercial that mentioned an airline was keeping middle seats open.

“Where should we go?”

The empty seat would mean I’d only have to buy one.

And the thing is, I know that among most of my readers, most of my friends who take the time to read this far, my weight is a non issue.

People will say “You’re beautiful no matter what size you are.”

And they’re right. As much as I sometimes have a hard time seeing it, I know that I’m beautiful. That’s not what I’m talking about here.

But the world isn’t built for someone my size.

The world isn’t built for someone with this level of pain.

I may not need a wheelchair, but things still aren’t always accessible. And sometimes it’s not reasonable for them to be.

I’m determined to make this walk today. Up and down steps that aren’t icy like they were last time.

I will pay for it later.

As I take pain meds and lay on the couch playing on my phone willing my joints to stop throbbing.

Apparently I did need to write. There’s always something trying to bubble its way to the surface, and today it was this.

It feels good to get it out, it feels good to be vulnerable and transparent and maybe give someone insight into what it feels like to live in my body.

A beautiful body that sometimes feels too big, emotionally and physically.

But I’m allowed to take up space.

And if I say that enough times, maybe I’ll truly believe it.

One thought on “Feel Like Writing

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