Alana's Dharma Blog

This body is not my own. If it were mine it wouldn’t be showing such intense signs of aging and wear after just 41 years. My skin wouldn’t be covered in brown and red spots. My hip joint and toe joint and knees wouldn’t be worn and hard to use. If this body were actually my own it would reflect my idea of who I am –pretty and fit and buttoned up and in control ( if not of everything in the world than at least of my corner of it, of what is mine, of what is me.) But alas, a spotted, busted-up body doesn’t exactly reflect those things.

If this body were truly mine my immune system would not be overtaxed — it would not be showing markers of inflammation and  aggravation, with positive ANA labs, new metal allergies and sensitivity to fiber and dairy — there would be less strain and more capacity so my body could stay fit to fight when I need it, but not so sensitive to cause damage when I don’t want it to.

If this body were mine it would show no signs of slowing down: I wouldn’t need so much sleep, I wouldn’t need more rest time than I used to between vigorous workouts and I wouldn’t have, so recently, been finding myself more easily tired out on my walks. If this body were really mine it would keep going the way I believe it should, it would have the same energy level in flesh as I want/consider in mind.

If my body were under my control I wouldn’t need to be petrified by recent changes and labs, I wouldn’t need to worry about each biopsy, each new mole or ache, because if my body were under my control I would –duhhh, control it — and could simply demand it keep a form I consider acceptable, healthy, in all ways and at all times.

So is the body constant or inconstant? Clearly the body is changing, inconstant, my immune system is being overtaxed, my iron levels have grown past capacity, I have a new growth on my cervix, a change in my mole. All this change has already occurred and my doctors are watching and waiting for more. New labs, new appointments and checks, seeing if there is new pain and new symptoms that indicate even further change and decay.

And is that which is inconstant easeful or stressful? Quite clearly I am hella stressed out by these changes to my body. I look in the mirror and feel embarrassed by the sun spots and rosacea. I workout and I feel self loathing that I can’t push harder, that fatigue or joint damage get in the way. I keep tinkering, making changes to diet, supplements, exercise, trying so hard to decrease inflammation, to lighten the immunity load. I worry with each test for a result I don’t want. I worry continually that I will lose this body. I will lose everything I love –my life, my husband –because they are mere accompaniments of this body that is decaying before my eyes.

And is it fitting to regard what is inconstant and stressful and subject to change

as: “This is mine”, “This is  my self”, “This is what I am”? Well Lord, this is certainly a question worth considering. This body is not acting in accord with my wishes and desires, but rather in accord with its 4e nature. If something marches through forms I dislike, I prefer to disassociate with, that I am helpless to change, it is hard to defend the position that “it is mine”.

What is more is that, as it marches through these various forms, it seems to invariably hit forms that I consider, in my imagination, to be decisively not me. Why else would I be embarrassed by my age spots? The embarrassment arises precisely because I think these are not me, these ugly splotches do not represent the beautiful Alana of my mind’s eye.  Why else would I be disappointed with myself when my achy hip prevents me from getting into a yoga pose or I need extra time between weight sets to recover? It is because an  Alana with an undisciplined body disappoints my self view as a fit Alana.

The fact is this body has already broken. There are already things it can no longer do: I can no longer digest certain foods. I can no longer do certain yoga poses. The reason for this is simple: The lining of my intestines has been worn away by chronic infection, bacteria have consumed a part of my body and it is no longer able to function to digest. Friction has worn away a part of my hip joint and it is no longer able to rotate in certain ways.

Now there are signs of further potential damage. An immune system that may be over taxed because it has fought occult gut infection so long. A cervix that is friable and damaged because part of it was burned away in a past surgery. This body, as a whole, and in individual parts is changing, decaying and aging in accord with its nature. In response to the other 4es in its environment.

It is crazy to expect that going forward this body will do anything different than what it has already done, i.e. change. That is what is in its nature to do.  As it continues its march of ever changing aggregations, it will continue to break. There will be more and more it can not do. Ultimately it will no longer be able to sustain life and I will die. At that point, I will definitely part ways from this body. It will go its way — decayed back to the ground — and I will go my way.  How can something I will inevitably part with really be myself or who I am?

What is more is that this body will continue its march of shifting aggregations, and ultimate disaggregation, independent of my desire that it be otherwise, irrespective of my hopes and expectations. My beliefs of what it should do, what it should be, what it is,  or what it makes me are irrelevant.

Notwithstanding any momentary impacts I am able to have, any minor deviations of course I can affect (by using Rupa to manipulate rupa), the end point of this body is always the same. I can remove a mole, or change my diet or take prophylactic drugs in the hopes of mitigating an autoimmune disease, but my best case impact is lengthened duration. Other possibilities are no change, or shortened duration, all are possible. This is because the nature of this body is not an entity that shifts in accord with my desires, but rather an entity that shifts in response to 4es in its environment and within itself. If I poke 4e body with 4e medication it will cause a change to its aggregation. This does not prove anything special about me, it confirms the body is acting in accordance with its 4e nature. If changes to this body are not about me — Alana the great causer — but about the nature of this body to change, and to change in accord to stimulus (whoever/whatever the stimulus causer), how would I claim this body confirms me?

I will part ways with this body and when I do I will lose all the accompaniments that it comes with –I will lose my wealth, my alana identity, my status and Eric. That I am so desperate to cling to these things has no bearing. How can a body be myself when its very decaying nature is the thing that guarantees I will lose my sense of self and everything I hold dear?

Oh and then there is the suffering…because it is what I consider mine, me, a necessity to realize my self and my dreams, I have become consumed with this body. Not a day passes that I do not have to worry about it. I fed myself a lie, that this body is special, exempt from the decay and change common in this world, and based on that lie have I let myself grow reliant on a body that a simple blood test has called into question the reliability of. It could break, fail, grow inflamed and start attacking itself at any moment. Seriously, a body that attacks itself, how on earth do I call that mine or me?

Because I call this body “mine”, my imagination envisions a future with it (or because my imagination envisions a future with it, I call it “mine”. Its a bit of a chicken and egg as far as I can tell), and I suffer as I try to force that future into reality. I suffer by any piece of evidence– a growing mole, a cervical polyp, a flagged blood test —  that forces my imagination to consider another possibility: A future without this body. A world that goes on spinning devoid of ‘Alana me’.

I wanted to come into this world. I wanted pleasure. I wanted to become, to prove who I am. I wanted to have a story, a future as I imagined it would be. And because I wanted birth in a rupa world, I required a rupa body. But with this rupa body comes pain not just pleasure. With this rupa body comes states that are incongruous with who I see myself to be –states of ugliness, of weakness, of illness, of sharp words and harsh behavior. With this rupa body comes not just a story but a very definite ending, a future that is not as I imagine it, because whose  ‘happily ever after’ has sickness and aging and death? With this rupa body comes loss, unbecoming, unalanafication (i.e. death).

I have convinced myself that an object which brings about the end of what I see myself to be is actually me. I have claimed an object that will fail me and leave me. I have claimed an object that the very act of claiming induces extreme stress. I have claimed an object that doesn’t give a damn about my claims, that will march along, shifting, decaying and disaggregating anyways.

And why? . And so, I lie, I claim this body, to support that lie because, alas,  hope, against all reason, still reigns supreme.

 

Like the Underwear, the Lady parts are not mine.

My Lady Parts are not my own. If they were they would never become filthy or smelly, uncomfortably moist, sweaty, itchy or infected. If my lady bits were my own they would stay fresh and clean all the time. They would stay healthy and disease free. But alas, no matter how many times I shower, all it takes is a few hours before my lady parts become stinky again. No matter how much care I take to keep them healthy, a yeast infection or PH imbalance or bacterial overgrowth can pop-up at any time.

My lady parts are not mine, if they were they would be under my control. In fact my lady parts regularly control me: I have had to halt vacations in foreign countries, travel hundreds of miles out of my way, to find English speaking doctors, or quality hospitals to address my vaginal pain. I have been reluctant to do activities I enjoy — worried in Israel that my vaginal issues would get in the way of the camping trip I was so excited for, worried my incontinence would interrupt my going on dhamma  retreat. I have been forced to alter my clothing choices (no white jeans on period days) or find “solutions” that let me proceed with normal everyday life despite fluids leaking from my lady parts. I have had to be quick to change out of wet swimsuits or gym clothes to avoid yeast infections. And, no matter how unpleasant, I have been forced to schedule pelvic exams so doctors can poke and prod at my cervix and ovaries, causing me discomfort and bleeding every time.

If my vagina were truly my own, it wouldn’t embarrass me: It wouldn’t smell so bad during workouts that it made me self conscious. It wouldn’t threaten the horror of bloody pants during a class. It wouldn’t have forced me out of bed with lovers because of pressure, urgency or blood. Its liquids wouldn’t soak through silk pants at work events and force me to carefully sit stiffly and cross legged the whole time.

If my lady parts were truly mine — even if I had to accept that they were going to inconvenience, embarrass and pain me — I could at least trust they would not kill me. But precancerous changes on my cervix, leading to surgery, made it clear that my lady parts can in fact make me ill. And my last visit to the gyn, where they found a weird growth and needed to biopsy it, was yet further evidence that lurking up in my lady parts, just slightly beyond my vision, insidious changes that can silently grow and spread could be the death of this body at any time.

No matter what I think the vagina’s job is, no matter that I count on it to stay functional and clean and safe, no matter that I am desperate for it to just  work as I need it to and not interrupt my everyday life, no matter that I wash it, medicate it when needed, and go for my annual exams, my vagina does not heed my desires and expectations.

This is because the fluids that are released by my vagina, precisely so that it can function for sex and childbirth, also make it wet and smelly. Bacteria and yeast that naturally grows in the warm, dark, moist environment –bacteria and yeast that in the right proportions can help keep the vagina healthy — can easily overgrow and cause disease with slight changes to the PH from medicines or douches or excess moisture from wet clothes. The skin and epithelial cells that line and protect the vagina can easily become itchy and irritated due to excess friction from clothes or solid objects placed in the vagina. Cells on the cervix can become cancerous in the presence of viruses (introduced into the environment through the normal use of sex). Cancer is simply a mutation in cells, and cells in the body regularly change in order to allow for the protection, regrowth, renewal and adaptation. Cancer can easily spread because lymphatic fluids, that help clear the body of debris and toxins, can also carry mutated cells and allow cancer to metastasize. In other words, the very nature of my body, the very qualities that enable it to function, are also the reason that it is able to assume/shift into forms I do not like, forms that embarrass, inconvenience or endanger me.

Is the vagina constant or inconstant? Clearly inconstant — it goes through states of wet and dry. The smell changes not just throughout the day but has changed over the years of my life as well. It goes through states of bleeding and states where there is no blood. States of PH balance and health and states where a changed PH causes pain and disease. The cells can change and new polyps or cancer can appear.

Is that which is inconstant easeful or stressful? Obviously it is stressful. It is stressful to be embarrassed by my vagina’s smell or leaking. It is stressful for it to itch or hurt. It is stressful to have to plan around its cycles or afflictions. Most of all though,  it is stressful when I worry it might kill me. When it forces me to endure surgery or biopsies. Stressful when I have to wait for the results and worry about cancer. It is stressful precisely because it changes when I want it to stay the same.

And is it fitting to regard something that is inconstant, stressful and subject to change as” this is mine”, “this is myself” or “this is who I am”?

Still working on getting to a true heartfelt no, but here is what I have:

My vagina is a body part that frequently disgusts and embarrasses me, I surely don’t want to claim those moments and aspects as my own. But at the same time, I accept them because a vagina is essential to my womanhood, and being a woman is something I deeply regard as myself, who I am. But that means, in essence, that I depend on an utterly undependable item, a body part, to claim/establish who I am.

I depend on an item that causes me physical pain and discomfort just to establish an identity. I tolerate behaviors that are filthy and super inconvenient, like bleeding and itching, so I can claim a female form. I have an object that I need to make accommodations for in my daily life, that forces me into situations I hate, and deters me from ones that I desire, and this is the thing I want to use to build an identity and life around? How is it “myself” if it involves doing things and making accommodations I don’t want to have to do?

Probably most significantly, I build an identity on an object that can literally force me to abandon the alana identity I so carefully crafted and nourished over the years. I want to be a woman, but the very thing my mind uses to make that identity credible, has the power to end it. The alana identity and life I have worked so hard for, invested so much time in, endured so much suffering for, can be brought to a swift end by these lady parts.  The alana identity and life I have worked so hard for, invested so much time in, endured so much suffering for, will definitely be brought to an end by this body.  What business do I have saying this body is myself, who I am, when it will die and, like a tidal wave, wipe out my entire sense of myself as Alana along with it.

What is more is I want my body to reflect me, who I believe myself to be. Of course, on one end, the lady parts do this, making my claim of womaness credible. But in another, they do the opposite, even in their “normal”, healthy state, being bloody and moist and smelly and frequently disgusting. If I want to claim the lady parts represent or reflect me, I need to claim all aspects and all states. I can’t simply keep it under wraps, try to tame it with undies and creams and soaps and medications and dysplasia removal surgeries and say “because of/ and yet in spite of/ these lady parts I am the me I want to be –a badass, on top, beautiful, sensual, good woman with a body and life all buttoned up and  in control”.

Just 2 weeks ago I am in the GYN’s office for my annual exam when my new GY looks up at me with concern plain on her face to tell me I have “an unusual growth on my cervix”. Second doctor ushered in for a second opinion, me freaking out, GY struggling to remove the growth, cramping and bleeding and terror. I go home, with a week to doomscroll and preparing for the worst, as I wait for the biopsy results to come back. All along, I am just wondering how I could possibly have cervical cancer so advanced it is visible to the naked eye, when I have been beyond diligent getting regular exams.  The doc calls 6 days later — benign polyp. Relief.

A few days later, every detail of that exam still seared in my brain, and I got to wondering — how on earth can this body be the foundation for the fairytale future my imagination has cooked up? It is a foundation so flimsy a single doctor’s appointment, the tiniest of cellular changes on the tiniest of body parts, could shake and tear down at any moment. What business do I have calling this body ‘me’ or ‘mine’ or ‘who I am’ if it isn’t going to give me the future I want, the story I was born to tell, but instead guarantees death and disease, the future I do everything to avoid.

These lady parts are changing, they are aging, and decaying — the lab results, the smells, the altered texture and blood flow are proof. I use it, as long as I can, and while I use it I must care for it and accept its downsides –its nature. But its nature is to go the way of this entire body, shifting states/form until it can no longer be used at all. So how exactly can I prove to myself that these lady parts, this body, is ‘who I am’ when all evidence points to the contrary?

This Underwear is not Mine

My underwear are not my own. If they were, they would never become filthy, smelly, moist and soiled. If my underwear were my own they would stay fresh and clean at all times. But alas, no matter how many times I wash the underwear, all it takes is a few hours of wear before they become filthy all over again.

My underwear is not mine, if it was, it would be under my control. In fact my underwear regularly controls me: it is my underwear stash that dictates laundry days, that monopolizes room in my suitcase. My trips are even planned with underwear in mind –will I be able to get to a hotel with laundry service to clean them?  Hell, on several trips my entire day was blown trying to get laundry done because I had run out of clean undies.

If my underwear were truly mine it wouldn’t rip and tear at inconvenient times. It wouldn’t get holes and wouldn’t wear out in the moisture absorbing crotch. At the very least, the expensive pairs would be built to last, I could count on those for a long time. But alas I have had underwear fray, rip in half mid day at the office, and force me to go comando all afternoon. Even the pricey period pairs come unstitched, their pads come out in the wash, weakening with every wash and every wear.

If my underwear were actually mine they would not embarrass me. They wouldn’t become so fragrant I could smell myself when I sit, and wouldn’t make me paranoid others around could smell me too.  Those period panties would always work, I wouldn’t have to worry continually, running to and from the bathroom checking for leaks. They would always absorb what they say they would absorb, irrespective of if it is a light period day or massive bleeding after a biopsy or pap. No matter what, they would do their job of keeping my lady business discreet.

But no matter what I think the underwear’s job is, no matter why I bought it, no mater that I count on it, no matter that I seriously prefer no stench, no matter that I wash after every single wear –my underwear will not heed my desires. This is because bodily fluids make them wet. Bacteria, in the hot humid vaginal area consuming those fluids and make them smell. Saturated solid cotton fibers begin to leak. Tension in the threads, and friction of fabric against my body, make them tear.

Are the undies constant or inconstant ? Clearly they are inconstant: they go through cycles from clean to dirty. They rip and tear, become waterlogged and leak, they go wet and dry in the hamper. They fade and they stretch.

And is that which is constant easeful or stressful? Stressful, no question. I work hard, to preserve my undies, to transform them into a clean state when they grow filthy. I think ahead, plan, make sure I have enough undies wherever I go. I am embarrassed when my undies smell, I worry they will leak and embarrass me even more. I am, quite frankly, disgusted by them at the end of each and every wear. When they stopped making my incontinence underwear I stressed even more, I scoured the internet and stress bought every last pair, because I felt like I needed them. Despite my need, they are the easiest ones to tear.

And is it fitting to regard what is inconstant, stressful and subject to change as “this is mine”?

I am starting to think… likely no: When I take my underwear off I literally fling them across the room, into the hamper, as fast as I can to be unseen and unsmelt. How is it I claim an object as mine when it disgusts me more often than it doesn’t.

How do I call something mine when it dictates my actions. When I am forced to make accommodations for it. No matter where I want to go, no matter what else I want to pack, no matter my other plans for the day –I always need to be mindful of underwear. Do I have enough? If not, I have to stop everything I am doing to clean them. I have to spend hours searching for new ones. I have to slip out over lunch and buy a pair to replace ones torn during the work day.

What is more is these undies were bought with the intention of keeping me clean and presentable, but they regularly make me smell. They are bought to protect me from the embarrassment of peeing or bleeding on myself, but at times they fail. Is something that embarrasses me mine? Is something I can’t really count on, with an issue so personal and delicate, actually mine?

I generally want my stuff to reflect me, but does a dirty ass ratty pair of underwear reflect who I am –does it prove I am pretty, delicate, in control of my body? Does it even actually keep me from leaking when I pee myself? Shit, it doesn’t even hide my filth so that other, “more me” rupa can “shine” unhindered. If I can’t force, or manage, something so small, something so basic, the very first thing I put on every single day still hasn’t yielded to my command, how on earth can I claim command over bigger things in the universe?

How am I supposed to call these consumables mine? These items I use, on their terms, when they are usable at all…items I care for. Items I am burdened by and stressed about. Perhaps the best question is “how is it that I think I can prove the underwear are mine when all the evidence points to the contrary?”

The sunscreen I diligently use, depend on every day isn’t mine — it is something I use to protect myself, but it is also leeching chemicals that can harm me through my skin. My blood isn’t mine, it is supposed to protect me, nourish my tissues and organs, but it also carries lipids to my heart and clogs my arteries. Is something that acts against me –threatens my life, mine?

My skin cream is not mine. It is a consumable good. I rely on it to have smooth skin, but I don’t even know when it is going to run out and leave me high and dry. My body is not mine. It is consumable. I rely on it to have an alana identity, an alana life, but I don’t even know when it is going to run out and leave me high and dry. Is something I rely on, but that can end at any moment really mine?

My phone is not mine. I bought it for one reason only: A long battery life. I wanted an item I could depend on. That would keep me safe and informed wherever I went. That I didn’t have to worry about just leaving me high and dry midday in some foreign city. For this feature I was willing to tolerate all the other shortcomings and suckiness of the phone — ugly, bad camera, bulky, expensive, bad UI. But in just a year the phone’s batter life is significantly diminished. Well before I think it is time for it to go. Now I have a sucky phone that doesn’t even get me through a day. How is it mine if it disappointed my expectations, forced me to accept suffering and tradeoffs and didn’t even deliver the thing most important to me.

My body is not mine. I have it for one reason: to have an Alana identity and Alana life/future consistent with my story, with my hopes and imagination. Obviously, its primary directive is to last, to stay functional so I can keep counting on it, so I have it –the necessary ingredient –for my future fantasy. I tolerate the shitshow of having a body –the pain, the filth, the bleeding pussy, the feces, the continuous need to eat and sleep, the humiliation of sagging skin and thickening waist. All for this one feature. And yet, here I am at 41 –way before I think it should be time –and my body is showing real signs of being on the fritz. Threatening to not be there to get me through too many more days: with inflammation, autoreactivity, ridiculously high cholesterols, strange new growths, how much longer can I count on this thing? How is it mine if it disappoints my expectations: If I am forced to tolerate all the downsides and I don’t even feel satisfied with the “upside’ I traded it for. When that upside is threatened too soon, every day and that threat is yet another cause of suffering in this life.

My tile grout is not mine: No matter how I care for it, how I scrub and bleach, after a few weeks it becomes moldy again. It changes form because a moist warm environment is the perfect solid place for spores of mold to move onto and grow. It changes form despite my desire or my efforts. My gut is not my own. No matter how I feed it, control diet, give it meds, it has bacterial overgrowth. It has changed form because the moist dark warm environment of the gut is perfect for bacterial to grow. They have moved from the large intestine to the small intestine and now the 4e bacteria consume the 4e food I eat and proliferate, causing gas, and eroding the intestinal lining so they leak into my blood and circulate through my body. This happens despite my desire or my effort. This happens even though this shift in stasis, in the elements of my body and the bacteria within it, is a threat to my health and my life. Something that doesn’t care about my efforts or desires, that endangers the thing I hold most dear is clearly not something I an call my own. I rely on my gut, as long as I am able, but a change in circumstance, in bacterial composition, makes it less reliable. It makes it something that can act against me.

My skin is not my own: If it were my own it would represent me. It would show the world the qualities I value, I imagine myself to have, especially beauty. Self control. But today, on one of the rare occasions I will see friends, I have a cold sore on my nose. What is more embarrassing that a contagious, ugly disease coming from my nose. I feel so self conscious, the opposite of beautiful (in my mind) –diseased. Clearly my skin is not manifesting my ideal self, the characteristics I want to project. It isn’t the me I want to be.

My food is not my own, if it were mine then when I had craved it and coveted it and gone out of the way to obtain it, it would nourish me. But last night, before I even had the opportunity to digest and be nourished by my first high calorie meal in weeks, I was vomiting it up. It had made me sick. If it is mine, wouldn’t it return my efforts with nourishment instead of illness? It is like my body, when I workout hard and hurt myself, shouldn’t my body reward my efforts with health and strength not pain. Or when I go get medical tests and find something may be wrong, shouldn’t my diligence be rewarded not send me into a cycle of torcher and fear? If this body were mine, it would sustain me, it would let me manifest the self and life I want. It wouldn’t cause me pain and suffering.

If my blinds were my own, they wouldn’t become cracked and broken. They wouldn’t look ghetto and cheap — the opposite of how I imagine myself. They wouldn’t be an embarrassment I fear others seeing. If my blinds were mine they couldn’t make my whole home feel uncomfortable, a reminder of how little control I really have, even in the space I live. This face is not my own. If it were it wouldn’t be blotched and sagging and there wouldn’t be a fat lump under my eye. If this face were really mine it would look beautiful –the way I imagine myself, instead of worn and withered, a testament to my inability to control even this one single body, the space I inhabit, the most “mine” of all things I call my own. It wouldn’t be an embarrassment, that was plain for all to see. A failure that glared back at me in the bathroom mirror each time I go in to pee. No this face is not mine, it isn’t how I imagine it, it isn’t dependable or keepable, it isn’t and affirmation of my control or uniqueness or specialness it is , with its sagging and wrinkling, like every other face, a reminder it is not mine and it can’t be who I am.

My coravan canister is not my own, it can run out at any time. It is a disposable good, something I can rely on only for a little while and then, at a time I have no insight or transparency into it ends. I need to replace it with another if I want the functionality of preserving wine again. This is exactly like my body. It is a disposable product. I can rely on it for a time and then, with no real insight or transparency into timing, it will end. Then if I want to be in this world again, I have to find a way to replace it, secure the effort and expense to obtain yet another consumable good.