Dear body,

What is it exactly you want from me?

Two months ago you’ve failed to prevent my wrist from breaking, causing me, if anything, to experience a minor depression. I have been semi hyperventilating on a constant basis for at least a month. And don’t think I haven’t noticed those weird little things happening to my skin. I know everybody has funny bits of skin, but is it necessary for mine to do their little tricks and shows all at the same time? And now, all of a sudden, without any warning, I receive from you your latest addition, your latest gift to your afflicted owner: severe pains in my back.

Unnecessary to say, I’m not amused by the headache, tears and vomit evoking yelling jolts of pain that seem to patter all over the entire area between my neck and bottom.

Body, what are you trying to tell me? That I’m too busy? That I lead a too stressful life? That I should cut back on my ambitions? My sweet package of blood and bones, do you honestly think you are the first to tell me? Don’t you think my boyfriend, my parents, my friends and even my colleagues haven’t been telling me the same already? Because they have, and still are. In fact, you are rather late telling me things I already know.

Alright, I should rephrase this accusation. I know you’ve probably been calling out to me for ages. That I simply didn’t listen before. But you see, with all my things going on in my brain and heart, you are pretty damn difficult to hear. You should just talk a little louder if you want someone to listen. Instead of slowly breaking down and crumbling to bits without letting me know. I’ve never been very good with being patient with the shyer, more silent voices among us. You should know, you’ve been around long enough now.

What is it you want to achieve? What you do is in fact infuriatingly counter productive. There are just some things that I need to do. I need to give my full time job a 110 percent of my dedication. I need to write a weekly column in my spare time. I need to support my man with his whatever it is he does. Fit in my friends and family as well as his. Need to arrange things, think of things, make sure my world keeps going round. How do you expect me to submit to these tasks if you keep restraining me with physical restrictions?

Don’t say I’m not your owner, but just your keeper, responsible for taking good care of you. I’m not one of those people who believe their body is a temple. I don’t live inside of you under the comfort of your warmth and roof. If that was what you were hoping for when we got together a quarter of a century ago, you’ve made the wrong choice. You should have waited around for a different soul to join you. Maybe one of those open houses for selling real estate with champagne and hors d’oeuvres would have been a good idea for your selection procedure. What a mistake you’ve made.

Dear body, you are not in the position to complain. Instead of my home you are my vehicle. To bring me places in life. To perform whenever I ask you to. Whatever I ask you to. To serve and obey all the wishes and commands of my brain and heart. I’m not your care taker, I own you.

Do you really think I have any options anyway? Any choice at all? Do you think I’m not aware of the desirable pleasure part time working would bring me? Or the relief it would bring if I stopped believing I had to take care of every single detail of 2 human lives? But it’s not like that’s gonna happen all of a sudden, is it?

Despite your disobedience I’m willing to compromise, to meet you half way. Please take the enclosed package of assorted painkillers, bar of chocolate and bottle of easily downable rose wine. Consider it a cease-fire. In which we get pissed together and it’s us against the world instead of against each other. What do you say about that?

Cheers,

Cecile

Column published by Cecile on Monday, April 30th, 2007.

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