Very well said.
I like this.
I hope you know you’re not the only one who feels the way you feel. You are not the only one who struggles. You are not the only one with questions. You are not crazy. You deserve to be heard, to be known. You deserve love.
You deserve a place that feels like home. You deserve some hands to hold. Hands to pull you past the broken moments, hands to catch you when you fall. Eyes to see you. To say you’re there, that you exist, that you change a room, that your presence is significant. Ears to hear you - hear your stories, hear you laugh. Ears to hear your questions and to say they matter.
I hope you get to a place and wake to a day, where that feels true. You deserve to know it’s true. You are not alone today and you matter very much."
Jamie Tworkowski (via internal-acceptance-movement)
People tell me I do not ‘take care of myself.’ And they are, technically, right. I work too hard and too much. I strain my wrists and arms and I, like many writers, will probably develop a repetitive stress injury, could in fact injure myself so badly that I will not be able to continue to work. I can already see the warning signs in the stiffness of my fingers in the morning, the way sometimes I wake up with my hands balled and cannot uncurl them, the dull ache that lives between my elbows and wrists all the time, that twinge I get sometimes at the end of a long night of work. I don’t look after my mental health very well; I continue to expose myself to things that endanger me and make me ill. I don’t rest. I don’t know how to rest. I would agree that I don’t take care of myself.
But you don’t know any of these things by looking at me. You can’t see late nights of work and emotional fatigue when you see my fat body. What you see are rolls and curves and lumps and muffintops and whatever else you see, and you think that means you know that I don’t take care of myself. Because my body does not meet a social standard, it’s icky and gross. So I don’t ‘take care of myself’ and people can look down their noses at me and feel snobby, and lecture me on my diet and exercise habits.
They don’t care about my health. They don’t care whether I am happy, whether I enjoy my body, whether I like moving and living in my body. They care that they don’t like looking at me and wish that my body would go away, would shrink, would dwindle away so that it will no longer offend their eyes. This is what people mean when they ask me if I’m ‘taking care of myself,’ when they give me a sidelong glance while I eat a doughnut, when they scrutinise me if I start to wheeze on a hike, because of course, I must be wheezing because I am fat and out of shape, not because I have asthma.
‘Take care of yourself,’ they say, gesturing at my body.
‘Fuck you,’ I think."
I can relate to this in so many ways.