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Due to my upbringing, I have an uncanny ability to turn off or dampen all my bodymind’s cues in periods of high stress. Hunger, thirst, pain, and warning signals all become nothing more than dull suggestions at the back of my mind. Faint voices I can’t make out through the protective walls my brain constructs.
I cannot stress how much I don’t recommend doing this. There is, invariably, a crash. A crash that is by no means worth it.
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The toll of moving
I moved to a new apartment this week, and this old curse reared its head once again. I’ve gotten quite good at not doing that, at allowing my bodymind to speak and not pushing myself too far. The stress of moving, though, overrode that. Until my most taxing day, I didn’t fully realize it was happening.
After a week of periodic packing, I was ready to be done. My furniture and heavy boxes were in a metal box on wheels, waiting to be moved to my new apartment. Luckily, movers loaded that box, sparing me further pain there. It was the big push—moving all my other stuff with the help of a friend.
It took us four trips to get my pets, plants, living materials, and miscellaneous other things from point A to point B. That morning, before the moving started, I still had to prep. I ate a few spoonfuls of yogurt, knowing I needed energy.
“I’ll eat more before we start moving things,” I told the rumbling in my stomach. I started packing up the final kitchen things. Then it was the guinea pig supplies, the closet, my sleeping things, blankets, the bathroom… and then it was ten o’clock and my friend was here, ready to get going.
After the first unloading, I felt lightheaded and nauseous, but when do I not feel nauseous these days? I pushed on, eating naught but a small square of chocolate. I did, at least, drink water.
It wasn’t until we were preparing for the fourth and final trip that I realized what I’d done. My knees started to buckle, and I leaned into the wall to keep myself up. My head spun. The world felt like a mirage, moving slower than it had any right to.
Still, I didn’t take a break. I wanted to keep momentum. Get it done, then I could do what my bodymind needed.
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That most insidious narrative: overcoming disability
Growing up, I had to push through pain and other concerns to get things done. In other words, I had to overcome bodymind limitations.
Narratives of overcoming are so common in our culture that to list even half the ones I know would take more words than I’m willing to write. Paralympic athletes overcome their disabilities to perform amazing feats; students overcome disability when they get a good score on a test. The message is always the same: if you just try hard enough, you can overcome your limitations to achieve anything.
That message is bullshit. It’s a lie crafted to shame nonnormative bodyminds which can’t meet standards of productivity, output, and success. While it is true that you may be able to ignore symptoms for some time, they will always come back stronger than before. Disability is not something to be overcome; it demands respect and accommodation. It demands love.
Even though I know all of this and preach it ardently, I still try to overcome sometimes, like I did on Tuesday. When I finally stopped that evening, trips done and bare essentials unpacked, I broke.
Whatever energy had been fueling me drained away. Even standing took Herculean effort. The world swam every time I did, and I had to steady myself for a full minute before I could take a single step. My stomach grumbled, but I was far, far too nauseous to eat anything.
I couldn’t go to bed at 5pm, especially not with my insomnia plan. But I didn’t have the energy to read or play games. The thought of moving my hands enough to kill a Xaurip filled me with dread.
Eventually, I managed to sit in my chair and put on a movie. I didn’t last too long, crawling into my floor-bed for a long night of troubled sleep at 8pm, almost three hours before my bedtime.
After that, I decided to hire movers again for the unloading of the rest of my stuff. I’ve spent the week moving slowly, walking with a cane, and trying to nurse my bodymind closer to my normal levels of comfort. I’m still not where I want to be. It will take me twice as long to recover as it did to do the damage.
Don’t follow my example, folks. Let your brilliant bodymind speak for itself. Follow its voice. Care for it. Cherish it.
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Ashton Rose 