When My Body Says No
It's different than when my brain says no. And up until very recently, my brain was always the ringleader. My body was just dragged along the way.
When my body says no, I don’t often hear it.
It’s like a whisper into a light breeze, floating away rapidly like a secret sent to the clouds.
When my body says no, it has no choice after all these years except to get loud. So loud, in fact, that many times I’ve ended up in the emergency room or admitted to the hospital for desperately needed care - a need that could’ve possibly been avoided had I heard my body in the beginning of it’s ask.
When my body says no, it takes days, if not weeks for me to recognize it. And it’s only because by then, nearly every system has been compromised.
When my body says no, my stomach hurts endlessly. I find myself constantly running to the bathroom, my joints ache more deeply, and I feel like I’ve lost my physical strength. I feel smaller. I feel like I’m getting lost.
I feel like I’m losing control.
When my body says no, my heart races and I get warm and flushed and the room starts spinning. My body tells me that I’m about to hit the floor if I don’t sit down immediately.
When my body says no, I’ve learned, that it typically has a good reason.
But what if I’m not ready to recognize or accept that reason?
Well, then the only choice in those moments is to go the logical route - take a handful of as needed medications, message my doctor asking for other options, or end up in the emergency room begging for care. Care that again, could have possibly been avoided had I heard my body, had I noticed the distress in my environment, and had my brain been consciously aware of the development and amping up of the symptoms in my body.
When my body says no - I suffer all of these serious consequences.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to hear the warning the first time and interrupt the cycle entirely?
Yes.
Yes, it would be easier.
But it would also mean creating and maintaining an open connection between my brain and my body, allowing for continual, reciprocal conversation.
This is something I’ve vehemently fought against for years - mainly because my brain stopped trusting my body a long time ago, and I have been both unable and unwilling to reconnect them since then.
My brain left my body because it was safer that way.
My brain left my body to help me stay alive.
The medical trauma I’ve endured month after month and year after year has been unbearable, and the only way to tolerate it was to disconnect. To disassociate. To pretend that I can live without focusing on what my body has endured.
But that doesn’t allow me to hear my body when it speaks up. When it has opinions. When it’s noticed something in my environment that feels dangerous or unsafe or even just unsettling. This season I’ve learned that this awareness can be really powerful, and in many ways remains critical to my mental health recovery.
I have to live in this body. But my brain can’t and shouldn’t always override my body. And that’s a tough one to accept.