We don’t have the best relationship, you and I.
I beat the ever loving shit out of you, push you to the breaking point, call you names, tell you to do more, that nothing is ever good enough, and expect you to show up in top form the next day.
I hate you, most of the time. But you are mine.
If other people insulted you the way I do, they would never be forgiven.
But you are stuck with me, forever.
You are I are forever entwined, mind and body, together as one.
I will call you a whiny bitch, I will call you a brat, I will tell you to stop complaining, to stop aching, to get your fat pudgy ass up and keep moving.
Because we must keep training.
Because we must keep moving.
Because my brain is not okay when you are not okay.
And right now, you are broken. You are hurt. You are wounded.
You can’t move. We can’t train. We can’t work.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hurl things at the wall.
And I can’t, because I need to care for you.
I’m worried about you. I need you to be better.
Because you are the thing that lets me move though air, that lets my fingers turn my thoughts into words. That lets me turn my emotions into movements, into dance, into flight. You will let me torture you, abuse you, yell at you, shame you, and yet you will get up the next morning and start all over again. You know I want you stronger, and will endlessly fight to meet my expectations.
You are my body, the only one I have. And when you are broken, I am broken. When you stop, my life stops.
I love you, and I hate you, for all your faults and imperfections.
Be patient with me, as I try to learn to love you better. As I try to make my mind sync with you. As I try to understand how to care for you as you should be taken care of.
I’m sitting here, on a Friday, with gin and tea and candles and my favourite show, with heating packs and pain relievers. I will do this every day, until you are better.
But please, don’t take too long.