Things I’m Afraid To Say (Out Loud)

Sometimes 

my body

betrays me

Sometimes it’s

my mind

Sometimes they 

conspire together

against me

I experience dying

without the sweet 

relief of death 

The torture of 

gasping for air

Curled up in a 

fetal position

begging my body

begging my mind

to please let me

either die or live

Quick.

I don’t recall when I first realized my body could do things without my permission. That it was separate from me. Me its occupier. Me its owner. Perhaps it was when I had just turned 9 and suddenly realized that I couldn’t catch my breath every time I glanced at my crush sitting across the classroom. That my face and ears would grow hot and my palms clammy whenever he looked my way. That I was terrified everyone could see my hopelessly awkward attempts at hiding my inability to control my own body.

Or perhaps it was the time my body suddenly changed. Overnight, the grapes on my chest turned into big oranges. The kind we planted in Ukambani. Everything grew without my permission, despite my refusal to let it. Soon I was hunched over or crossing my arms or wearing sweaters even in sweltering heat because my body had a mind of its own and we were at war.

Maybe it was my menstruation experience. Unforgiving, violent and relentless. The first few years were spent curled up in a ball for days at a time, weeping. Completely enveloped by a searing pain that I would at first defiantly try not to acknowledge through gritted teeth, then try and fight, then beg to please show me some mercy. But it never did. My body hated me and I in turn, hated it back.

With time, I became disconnected from it. I understood it as a vessel that carried me in this world. A vessel that was ridiculously fragile for this terrain, but also somehow strong enough to withstand the battering that came with life. I sought to be seen and witnessed beyond my body, even though I noted that many people liked me for it. I accepted that. That people are who they are so the wrapping must be nice enough to encourage them to open the gift. That once they did, they’d be amazed by what I was on the inside and barely remember my pesky body.

My mind was the thing I was most proud of. When my body had only let me down, rebelled and worked against me, my mind was my friend. Everything I enjoyed was with my mind. I read, learned, discovered, explored and shared knowledge with ease and it was what I imagined a perfectly contented life must be. Then one day, a glitch. Small enough to not cause damage, but big enough to make me realize that my mind was rebelling too. 

I tried to ignore it as long as I could. Through my teenage years into early adulthood I tried. But I couldn’t deny the dread, the losing interest in life, the unexplained tears, the seed of fear ever growing in my chest, the knots in my stomach, the memory gaps, the frustration, the anger, the nightmares, the insomnia, the forgetfulness, the overwhelming weighted feeling of life pushing down on me, the restlessness, the terrifying flagellation my thoughts became, the complete loss of control over my own mind. Suddenly, the part of me that I had trusted was no longer trustworthy. My body and my mind were in cahoots now. Full revolt. And I found out just how bad that could get when I had my first panic attack.

A panic attack while alone in public has to be one of the most torturous human experiences. The inability to breathe. The clutching of the chest. The buckling to the floor. The franticness of trying to take back control of your body and mind. The staring. The well-wishers trying to help but inevitably skyrocketing your anxiety. The paranoia as you try to tighten your grip on your valuables. The terror that you feel dizzy and you may black out alone with strangers. The questions like, “Where is your inhaler?” You wishing it was that simple to explain what is wrong with you. The tears bravely fought but running down your face. The exhaustion. The nausea. The ringing in your ears. The awareness of your fragility, insignificance, smallness, weakness, aloneness, vulnerability. The acceptance that there’s nothing to be done but wait for your body and mind to decide that you’re not dying. The niggling thought that death would be a sweet release. The stronger thought that you refuse to die today like this. The horror that this will happen again and you don’t know how or when. The encapsulating fear. The dissolving of colour, sound, shape, smell, taste, touch, sight. The nothing. The everything. The here. The there. The everywhere. The nowhere.

Just relax and focus 

on your breathing. 

Relax your muscles

unclench your jaw. 

Breathe Mwende.

Breathe. 

Focus ahead on that 

chips joint signage. 

That colour is a poor choice

barely legible.

Breathe Mwende.

Breathe. 

When did fries become 

so expensive? 

They smell so good though 

should get lunch.

Breathe Mwende.

Breathe.

Over time, I have learned to lovingly work with both my body and mind. To view them as collaborators rather than subjects. Still, sometimes they do things that remind me that harmony is an ever ongoing project. That I cannot conquer and divide or guerrilla my way into it. That healing is done through self knowledge, acceptance and patience. And that it doesn’t look like what people expect. It’s messy, requires a leap of faith, has periods of feeling stuck, is terrifying and confusing and hurts. It hurts. A lot. But also, it’s affirming, it pushes you to be courageous, it makes you dig deep to find the cause of hurt and finally start the journey towards healing, it brings your real people to you and reminds you that there’s beauty in this world.

And oh God 

there’s so much 

beauty in this world. 

Including my 

imperfect body 

and imperfect mind.