Burden of flesh, or: how to love my body

I will stop hating my body.

I've decided to.

Hating my physical self is probably a habit that'll be the hardest to break.

It has become my nature; it ate me alive, it made me sick with bitterness.

I've hated my body since I became aware I had one.

It has never been a work of art, nor a functional machine - no more but a set of flaws, collection of bad pieces wrongly glued together.

I'd look myself in a mirror and see an inflated, overgrown, ugly, swollen doll.
My body has never fit the standards set by others. It would never be beautiful. It failed to please anyone. The mirror would choke with disgust and shame.

It took me more than thirty years, but at the certain point I almost became detached from my body.
Using heavily the Internet, being more comfortable  writing my thoughts, I've started connecting with people; I've started sharing  my mind, my opinion, my feelings, my creativity; music, words - the soul itself. I didn't need a body anymore. I've started acting as if I hadn't have one. I almost...just almost, felt freed.

This ugly pointless burden of flesh was irrelevant; as if it wasn't there anymore.
I gave up on my body.

I stuffed my sadness with food, with sugary drinks, alcohol, I shed my tears endlessly. I've assaulted my body sexually, sometimes through others, sometimes by myself; and it would sometimes pay me back with  pleasure.

Because my body didn't exist anymore, I've kept torturing it to relieve my pain, to save my soul.

"Do not look at the mirror. It doesn't matter what you wear. Don't put your make up on, don't dye your hair. It doesn't matter anymore. It isn't there, your body doesn't exist, it's not important."

But it started cracking. It started burning, hurting and breaking. It started reminding me it was still there.

My body started fighting back.

It is now whispering - through my skin, from the inside; missing heartbeats, making writings with bruises and vein lines; and it says: "Start caring for me. Start praising me. It is not the matter of vanity; you do not have me to be liked or adored or to be attractive; it is not the point of being material. But I do give you the fingers to touch, eardrums to hear the music, eyes to see the world under the  Sun, vocal cords to sing your heart out. I give you hands to hug, lips to kiss your sons' foreheads, tongue to articulate your voice, to spit out your thought. I am your shell, your protection, your home; I was the womb to grow buds, and I held three lives inside me - including your own. Don't I fucking deserve to be nurtured, taken care of, pampered and loved? You will need me more. Don't be ashamed of me. Heal me. Give me shiny and fresh things with good smells and vivid colours. Give me tenderness. Acknowledge you have me; be proud of me and I'll grow stronger, better and healthier in return.

I will walk you through Cihangir streets again."

foto 

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/14847873742541909/