I have a holocaust physique. Having a chronic medical condition has withered my figure, stripping the leaves and color from my twiny branching bones. I am weak. I was given nerve tests to measure the strength of my nerves. They are still strong. The doctors told me that my weakness was psychogenic. They are mostly right. It’s not that I can’t lift more than two pounds or stand up on my own, it’s that I do not. Doing so causes the world to spin and for radiating whips of pain to spur in my head, along with neusia, heart palpitations, and an abrupt pushing sensation that knocks me out of thought and concentration. I’d rather think than move. I’d rather be still than be in so much pain.
In the petrified clarity, I think about the dangers of heading these warning signs. My brain doesn’t want to be beaten, but my body is suffering for it. My world is shrinking, as my muscles atrophy it becomes more and more difficult to do even the simplest of tasks. I can’t even open most doors on my own anymore. I’m locking myself in my own coffin. I think about my friend Amanda, who has an autoimmune disease that’s eating away at her muscles with no known cure. With all the physical therapy in the world she would not be able to build herself up to even fractionally functional. And here I am, fully able to rehabilitate, fucking myself over everyday, because I’m so afraid of the pain, and even more so the painkillers that might allow me to make it. I do not want to be so weak anymore, I do not want any of the shards wounding me to be from mirrors.
I have a prescription strength will and a script for as needed Perkaset. I have protein powder, and strong friends. In the next two months I want to acquire muscle, I won’t give it a weighted number, I’ll just measure it qualitatively instead. I want to be able to open doors, jars, and feel more like the girl I used to be, and the warrior that I know I still am.
And I want to be strong enough someday to punch Dr. Verma in the fucking face.
