I have minimally tried explaining to people that the anxiety is not in my mind, it’s in my body. That is simply the undeniable truth, and is some ways it’s own revelation. It is my body experiencing unpleasant feelings. The symptoms then alert my mind. The mind can almost instantly make the body feel worse, depending on the thoughts it has. But something I have noticed is that thoughts alone, no matter how calm, positive, or rational, do not have the power to make the body feel better. At least it doesn’t for me.

This is a stereotypical example, but allow me to use it to illustrate my point. We are probably all familiar with the husband telling the wife to “Calm down” joke.

About a week and a half ago I found a book on my dresser called, “Healing Trauma”, by Peter Levine. This is where I keep the medical/health books I’ve deemed worthy of keeping. I had gone to my dresser to see if there was anything from my book stash that I could purge, but ended up seeing the book, picking it up, and reading through it. The word trauma is kind of a buzz word these days, but don’t let the word itself alarm you. I’m someone who’s of the mind that simply being alive on this earth is traumatic.

Humanity is the race of the walking wounded.

So in the book he talks about befriending your body. It sounds almost too simple and goofy when you start to read it, but I’ve spent the past week and a half sitting here on my bed touching my arms, my hands, my legs, and talking to them. “These are my legs. My legs belong to me. My legs are a part of me.” I’ve discovered I don’t like touching my hands. They feel small, weak, and fragile, and those are not feelings I enjoy much at all.

I despise the fact that my body is vulnerable, and subject to harm, injury, illness, and death.

I had this thought, too. It’s interesting how my mind wants to constantly point it’s finger at the body. You’re having a heart attack. A stroke. Seizure. Cancer. Auto-immune disease. Your adrenals. Your brain chemicals. Anything but pointing the finger at itself.

Anything but love an imperfect body.

Anything but love.

But love.

Love.