For years, my body became a battleground
Reclaiming My Body: A Journey to Autonomy
The Weight of Disconnection
That weight in my chest? It settled there long before I could even name it. It was a constant shadow, stretching and twisting with every move I made. My body, the very thing that carried me through the streets, through those late-night study sessions and the joy-filled coffee dates with friends, felt… alien.
Disconnected. Like a landscape, I no longer had the right to navigate.
This feeling didn't just appear. It was a slow wearing away, starting with moments that, on their own, might seem small. The casual way my discomfort was dismissed during a medical exam. Or the well-meaning, yet persistent, pressure from relatives about my shaadi prospects. And the anxieties that would coil tight around my reproductive choices. Each of these moments chipped away at my sense of ownership.
When Pain is Dismissed
The Clinical Experience
The sterile smell of antiseptic would always make my stomach clench. I remember one routine check-up I'd put off for weeks. The doctor looked tired as she listened to my lower abdominal pain. Her response felt so quick, so impersonal. "It's probably just gas," she said, barely glancing up from my chart. "Are you eating well? Getting enough rest?"
I tried to explain more – how the pain sometimes shot down my leg, the nausea that came with it. But her eyes had already moved on. When I flinched as she examined me, her brow furrowed briefly. "Relax, it's just part of the process."
The Aftermath of Invalidation
Leaving the clinic that day, I felt numb. Was it really just gas? Was I making a big deal out of nothing? But the pain was real. My pain. Yet, in that room, my experience, what my body was telling me, had been minimised. It was dismissed as unimportant. That's when you start to feel like your own understanding of your body doesn't matter, that someone else, with authority, knows better.
The Marriage Question
Family Expectations
And then there were the family gatherings. Once I hit that ripe old age of thirty, every phone call with relatives seemed to circle back to one topic: my marriage prospects. "Beta," my aunt would start, her voice full of what I knew was genuine affection, "you're not getting any younger. We've found a very nice boy…" Or, "Have you thought about the kind of family you want to marry into?"
I knew the questions weren't meant to hurt. In their world, marriage was the natural next step, a sign of security and acceptance. But the constant inquiries, the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) suggestions about who would be a good match, the underlying urgency – it all felt like a steady chipping away at my own sense of direction. My career goals, my personal growth, my own timing – they felt less important than fulfilling this societal expectation.
A Body to be Presented
And it wasn't just about finding a partner. There were comments about how I looked, gentle nudges on how to be more "marriageable." In those conversations, my body felt like something to be presented, evaluated. The focus wasn't on my well-being, my own desires, but on fitting into a prescribed role. It felt like my body wasn't entirely mine to decide what to do with, its main purpose being to become part of someone else's life, to have children, to fit a mould.
When Boundaries are Crossed
But beyond these everyday instances, there was the abuse. The memories of it, the ones I often try so hard to bury under the weight of daily life. That was the brutal reminder that my boundaries could be crossed so easily. That was the moment the real disconnect began. My body started to feel like a place of danger, not home.
A Body as Battleground
Living with Trauma
For years, my body became a battleground. It held the tension of unspoken pain, the aches of what had been done. I learned to disconnect, to float above the discomfort, the fear. My mind became a master of distraction, building walls to keep those memories locked away.
The Body Remembers
But the body, oh, the body remembers. It whispered in the tightness of my shoulders, that constant knot of stress. It screamed in the sudden panic attacks that would seize me in crowded spaces, those moments where the past felt terrifyingly present.
This was my body's way of speaking, a testament to what it had endured. Understanding this language, translating its pain into a path towards healing, was a slow, slow climb.
The First Breath of Reclamation
Small Acts of Defiance
It started with small acts of defiance, tiny rebellions against feeling owned. I began with my breath, consciously inhaling and exhaling. A simple act, yet it was about claiming the air within my lungs, a quiet acknowledgment: I am still here.
Finding My Voice in Therapy
Therapy became my lifeline, a safe space to finally voice those memories. It wasn't easy. There were tears, anger, the raw vulnerability of facing the truth – what had been done, what had been taken. But with each session, the grip of shame began to loosen. I started to see that the violation wasn't about my worth; it was an act committed against me. This understanding was a small seed, but it began to grow.
Learning to Listen
Reconnecting with Body Wisdom
Then came a profound shift: learning to listen to my body's wisdom. For so long, I'd seen it as an enemy, a source of pain and fear. But slowly, I started to notice the subtle cues. The knot in my stomach warning me away from certain situations. The surge of energy when I did something I truly loved. Trusting these signals became an act of deep self-acceptance. It was acknowledging that my body, despite everything it had been through, was also a source of strength, resilience, and deep knowing.
The Non-Linear Path
Navigating Setbacks
The journey wasn't a straight line. There were days when those old feelings would crash back with startling force, when that weight in my chest felt crushing. But now, I had tools, anchors to hold onto. I learned to ground myself in the present, to use mindfulness to navigate those waves of anxiety. I surrounded myself with people who respected my boundaries, who listened without judgment, who reminded me of my inherent worth.
Rewriting the Story
From Victim to Survivor
Reclaiming my bodily autonomy isn't about erasing the past. It's about weaving it into the story of my present. It's about acknowledging the scars, visible and invisible, and understanding they aren't signs of weakness, but proof of my strength. It's about rewriting the narrative, moving from feeling like a victim to knowing myself as an empowered survivor.
Remembering Strength
A New Relationship with My Body
My body still carries memories of the past, but now, it also holds the signs of healing. It moves with a newfound freedom, a quiet confidence in its right to exist, to take up space. This is my body, and this is my story – a story of reclaiming, of resilience, and of the unwavering belief in my own self-acceptance. And as I walk through the streets of this city I call home, I carry with me the quiet knowing: my body remembers, but now, it remembers strength.
It remembers me.
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