"You need to get better at taking care of yourself," my therapist told me.
Taking care of myself? I'm already good at doing that. I eat at least one meal a day, I take a shower every night, wash my face when I have the energy. I go to work even when each step toward the office building is another stone on my back, weighing me down till I am some hunched-over Thing, soggy and broken, smile painted in red over my too-pale mouth, eyes peeled open in some semblance of positivity.
I text my friends back most of the time, I force myself to do the things other people need from me even when it makes it hard to breathe, and when things feel too much, I just buy the next thing that'll turn me into a new person.
Oh. But maybe what she meant was "be kind to yourself." As in, "if you go one weekend doing nothing but taking a bath, clipping your nails, washing your laundry, and reading a good book, it is okay." Even if my mother calls me lazy? Even then. Even if my friends get upset I didn't go to their party? Even then.
It's improbable, though, until I get sick, and have no choice. It's just a cold—probably—but worse than any cold I've had in recent memory, and I'm confined to my hotel suite for five days. First of all, it's interesting. That the same friends I drop everything for, bend over backwards and contort myself into an unrecognizable pile of limbs to do things for, to please them, to keep them, do not feel the same when it's me who's in need. I agonize over every text. Every Do you need anything? that's expecting a No, I'm fine! in response, when in actuality I want to email them a detailed list of medication and food and tea, and oh yes, can you also please just come keep me company so I don't go crazy in my own brain? I'm in bed, one person says, but I can bring you some stuff tomorrow if I have time. I'm in bed also, I think, and my throat is raw and my head is throbbing from coughing so hard, but Sure, no problem!
Be kind to yourself. Okay. Reactivate my Hulu account. Start a Sundance Now trial. Snag tea and sugar from the hotel lobby. My weighted blanket is my best friend now, and so is that cockroach behind the TV even though I have to kill him because he wasn't invited. I can't focus on any movies or books, but I can get myself up to take a shower. So I stand in too-hot streams of water, lather myself in winter scented shower gel, shave my legs all the way up to the tops of my thighs, like I never do except for in the summer. Stare at my breasts in the mirror because, for some reason, I don't completely hate my body right now. There's none of that usual pressure in the back of my head, the voices telling me I have to be formed a certain type of way to be appealing to men who would never want me anyway, and whom I'm not even sure I want. Oh, that's right, I'm queer. Lesbian, I've tried out several times in my head. Bisexual, I said at first, though I'm still not sure which one is right. Queer works fine for now, and anyway, there is only me here right now, and I've never had something like this that's just mine, so close to my chest, something I can curl around, tucked safely to my belly. Something that holds my back a little straighter when I walk, even when the stones pile on. By the fourth day, my throat is clearing up, my head does not hurt, and I've begun watching my way through a list of "Best Sapphic Films." I have washed my face every day, combed my hair each morning, eaten three meals because I have now discovered the magic of a bowl of hot soup. Be kind to yourself. I ran a total of one errand, did not attend any social events, and somehow, the world has kept turning and my life has not ended. I have written two stories about women desiring women and they are the easiest things I have put to paper in years and I know I will have to address that later, figure out how I spent 25 years of my life thinking I was another type of person and where I go from here, but for now this is mine. And I don't think I will tell all this to my therapist. She might not even want to hear all this, which is fine, because the point is I'm learning. So I spend five days with myself and I emerge, not healed or new or changed in any significant way. But I walked into work this morning and the stones did not feel as heavy, and I wore no red smile, just my too-pale lips and my almost-too-tight pants, fingernails chipping and flaking. And I felt okay about it.
Camille Clarke is a Midwestern girl currently living in the South. A graduate of the University of Minnesota, she has a degree in Asian Languages and Literature with a minor in English. She sometimes accidentally uses French and Korean in the same sentence, much to the confusion of those around her.