Writing, in general, is therapeutic for my soul. It is part of how I process pain. Yesterday was no different. Writing hurt terribly in the moment, but later as the words reverberated in my brain over and over again, the lump I had been carrying all week finally climbed to my eyes and spilled out in the saddest of sobs in the solace of my dark bedroom. Tim had reached over to touch my body, but I flinched because I didn't want him to touch me. I rolled my body away from him and asked him not to come closer; somehow he obeyed. Tim has a really hard time not helping me; he hates when he can't fix problems. But we both knew last night as I sobbed that the engineer in him wouldn't be able to fix this problem. So we just sat in the darkness--me crying, him staring up at the black ceiling.
But after a time, and I believe a little coaxing, I finally turned to face him. Somewhere through my tears and writing and thinking I discovered why I ached so much, I was again embarrassed by my body. I felt ashamed of it. It's been years since I had felt this way so to feel it again--at such a fragile time--has been very hard.
Once I said the words aloud to him, I felt my tears begin to dry up, and I felt the need to reach out. I asked him to let me lean my head on his shoulder to which he gladly obliged, and we just sat there, letting the words hang in the air until they sunk deep into my heart. I've been here before. It was a dark time in my life, but it passed, and I knew last night that it would pass again if I let it. So that's where I am. I'm processing my pain in the only way I know how, but I have one ally I didn't have before when I struggled with my body image; I have Tim. He will carry me for as long as I need to be carried until I find my feet again.