Fearfully and wonderfully made...

I hate my body.  There is no denying, no obfuscating around this fact.  I hate my body.  For many reasons.

This night, this early morn, it is not for what was done to it so much as what it is doing to me.  Only, the truth of the matter is that this, too, is because of something that was done to it.  The same something.  Sin.

I mean not the sins committed against my body by evil, vile men.  No, I mean the sin committed against my body merely by existing in a fallen world.  God did, indeed, create me in fearful and wonderful fashion. But sin permeates ever cell, every atom, of this world, constantly destroying what it touches.  Sin brings death. Period.

Someone once put to me that I am sinning greatly against God in hating my body.  I was crushed and weighted by that assignation and condemnation for a long while.  Only, every breath I take is in sin.  And, frankly, I disagree.

For I do not hate the body God created, the perfect, whole, spotless body.  I hate the body it has become twisted and marred and weighted by sin.  Besides, God created all of my body, including emotions, and it is normal and natural and reasonable to feel as I do.

I am not angry at God.
I do not resent Him for where I am in this life.
I do not blame Him for what I suffer.

I blame satan. I blame the sin that has corrupted so fully, so deeply the fearful and wonderful works of our Creator. I blame our foe and the world and my own flesh.

Friday night I did not fall asleep until 9:00 Saturday morning.  I slept off and on until the afternoon.  My neighbor, facing a mighty battle of her own, was coming for a meal and a NASCAR race.  I slept nearly until it was time to start cooking for her.

Because of that the only food I had on Saturday was a small spinach salad, a chicken breast, a single helping of roasted red potatoes, and two oatmeal craison white chocolate cookies.  My body reacted as if I had feasted for days.  From 7:00 PM until about midnight, I was in such agony I thought my innards would burst.  Then, when I was starting to feel the ease, my blood sugar started dropping.  Around 2:00 AM, I decided to correct with a smoothie.  Milk, yogurt, strawberries, and a banana.  I used the other type of whole milk I found (one for toddlers), so perhaps that is the source of my agony.

I suspect, however, it is not.
I suspect the source is sin.
I suspect it is simply the random dysfunction of my digestive system caused by dysautonomia.

I hate my body.  More specifically, I hate my nerves.  Truly.

Since the food poisoning that felled me December 26, 2010, my innards have been my greatest foe.  More specifically, the nerves controlling the autonomic function of my digestive system.  Just when I think I have gained ground, it is proved not one step forward have I taken.

Last night, once again, I was writing for hours and finally found rest around 5:00 AM.  While I needed food, my body was not about to process any more food.

Today, I had a glass of milk for breakfast, a Dr Pepper, a third of a chicken breast and about a dozen pieces of roasted red potatoes for lunch, and Gatorade, two eggs, a slice of cheese, and one and a half slices of bacon for dinner.  The last meal was difficult to eat because I battled a migraine all day, from noon until about 2:00 AM.

That is, admittedly, a small amount of food for the day.  Yet I feel, again, as if I am ready to burst.  Two doses of Zofran have helped with the wild bouts of nausea and vomiting.  I have had diarrhea off and on all day.  My guts have roiled so much you could hear them even if you were in the next room.  And the even the modest weight of a t-shirt has left my abdomen in agony from just below my breasts to just below my hips.  If I pull the fabric away from my body, there is a palpable relief.  Only I simply  am unable, mentally, to lie about naked.

I managed to sleep from about 12:00 AM until 2:30 AM, which was a great relief.  But I am awake still because the nausea and pain is too much to ignore.  At 3:00 AM, I realized my blood sugar was falling again, so I nibbled on saltines and drank a Gingerale.  I am hoping, rather fervently, that the lack of protein will not leave me plummeting again.  For I am not sure I can force myself to swallow another bite, another sip any time soon.

Lying in bed, I am miserable with nausea and pain and the fear of the strangeness of a low heart rate.  Standing to fetch food or another ice pack, I am miserable with nausea and pain and dizziness and the fear of the weakness of a rapid heart rate and falling blood pressure.

I hate my body.
I hate my nerves.
I hate my digestive system.

I hate the pain, the nausea, the vomiting, the gas, the bloating, the diarrhea, the constipation, the torn skin. I hate trembling and shaking. I hate the sweats and clamminess. I hate fainting as passing stool passed by a particular spot on my vagal nerve.  I hate the exhaustion brought on by nights of little sleep and days of fitful napping as I battle all of that. I hate that there is no rhyme or reason to all of this other than the fact that my body simply does not work as it should.

I hate the nausea from low blood pressure.
I hate the nausea from low blood sugar.
I hate the nausea from migraines.
I hate the nausea from stalled digestion.

I hate the stiffness and agony of arthritis.  I had the chills and agony of plunging body temperature.  I hate the weakness and trembling limbs.  I hate being felled by warmth.  I hate the dizziness and confusion and anxiety and disorientation and aphasia and memory loss. I hate the tingling and numbness.  I hate the temporary loss of movement.  I hate the fear and terror all of this brings to mind.  I hate the exhaustion.  I hate the doubt and despair.  I hate being merely a passenger for this wretched carousel ride.  Up and down, round and round, without end.

I hate my body.

In trying to talk about this, it was also put to me that I should forgive my body.  That, too, does not seem right and feels an awful lot like Law.  Besides, the truth of the matter this is happening to me because of sin, because of our foe, the world, and perhaps my own flesh.  Perhaps the cookies were foolish.  I do not know. Perhaps I should not have tried the other whole milk yogurt.  Perhaps.

I suspect, though, this is not the sin of my flesh at play, but rather that of satan and the effects of living in a world marked by sin and decay and death.

I struggle to pray Psalm 139 for myriad reasons...just as I hate my body for myriad ways in which it has been touched by sin.  I struggle to hold in my mind that I was knit together in my mother's womb, that God created me fearful and wonderful in His craftsmanship.  I.  I struggle.

Thanks be to God, then, that it is not my belief that matters, but Christ's.  Christ be praised that He gave me the Holy Spirit to take the groanings of my heart and my body and speak them to Christ as the prayers needful and whole and true.  Praise to the Father who receives those prayers from Christ and deals with me bountifully for His sake, rather than for mine.

For my sake is filled with doubt and despair and hopelessness.  My sake is bound by suffering and anguish and an utter unwillingness to face another day, another night, another hour, another moment battling my own body.

Yet I am fearfully and wonderfully made.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!