Today, my friend – the other Carly, Carly Findlay – wrote a shut up amazing piece about apologising and how she no longer wants to apologise for what is beyond her control. Shortly after reading Carly’s piece, I saw the photo Annie Leibovitz took of Amy Schumer in all of her near-naked and non-apologetic glory. I wrote the following on my chasing away salt water page:
I am loving this photograph of Amy Schumer by Annie Leibovitz for the 2016 Pirelli calendar. Beautiful and real, replete with her natural curves and belly. Amy writes on her Twitter account – ‘Beautiful, gross, strong, thin, fat, pretty, ugly, sexy, disgusting, flawless, woman. Thank you.’ No Amy, THANK YOU.
As a woman with Cystic Fibrosis, I’ve always had a belly (even at 38kg) that I’ve been embarrassed about. Why? The way women who have won the ‘genetic lottery’ are portrayed in the media are partly accountable. Compare the 2016 Pirelli calendar to the 2015 one of highly fetishised shots of ‘supermodels’, and there’s another answer.
I stopped reading ‘beauty and fashion’ magazines many years ago for a couple of reasons. Firstly, there was no substance in the writing, and I felt that the articles were trying to dumb me down even though they carried the token ‘be empowered!’ bylines. They made me feel as though I wasn’t in charge of my life because everything from my personality to my body, my diet and the colour of my skin had to be curated to please others.
The images in these magazines come a close second. They are photoshopped and airbrushed to within a pixel of their life, which is not telling you anything new. Over the last year, I’ve been celebrating my body more and more because it is strong, capable and really fucking incredible. This body with it’s bi-afran belly and beauty marks (scars) has been through dozens of surgeries and survived. It took me a long time to accept – let alone be proud of – my scars, and while these surgeries have shaped me, they do not define me. My body is unique, beautiful, capable and tenacious and that’s something I celebrate every day.
Like Carly, it got me thinking that I’ve been apologising all my life for things that are beyond my control. A prime example is when I would have massive coughing fits for the twenty-one years before my transplant. I would be in a constant state of apology – always to the person next to me (especially if it was a boy) even when they would tell me I had nothing to be sorry about.
But what was I actually sorry for? For not being able to stop the brutal evolution of my dis-ease? For not being able to stop my lungs drowning in mucous where the only way I could get any relief from the crushing pain was to hack up green and brown slugs, or red if I had had a bleed?
I’ve been in bed with lovers and have apologised for my belly and my scars. The thing is – I know they don’t care because orgasms are more powerful than any mark on my body. My scars are a testament to my survival. I started calling them ‘beauty marks’ long ago, but I know that they’re just scars and most humans have them – just maybe not as many as I do. Men are told ‘chicks dig scars’, but I’ve never heard anyone say ‘men dig scars’. These indentations on my body represent my survivorship and they tell me – and others – that I am a warrior.
But sometimes there are apologies you have to make. I’ve done a lot of apologising over the last couple of years because I needed to say sorry to my family for lying to them about my addiction issues.
I was brought up with a fairly strict hand, replete with a really solid set of manners, and maybe that’s why I’m such a passionate apologist. I apologise a lot to men for no good reason, and as a society we’re conditioned to say ‘I’m sorry’ when someone dies. How about ‘that really fucking sucks – what can I do to help?’ Because you can always help.
I was talking to someone on the weekend about Facebook and how my personal presence on there is very small compared to what it used to be. Instead of having 800 ‘friends’, I now have about 80, and a lot of them are for my deathie work. The reason I deactivated my profile and had a ten month Facebook hiatus after I did my vipassana was because I had essentially turned into many of my Facebook ‘friends’ own private therapist.
I love helping people – it’s my passion and purpose – but when people would message me to help solve their problems, I would do the very best I could until I became overwhelmed and needed time out. Yes, I feel guilty when people work out who I am on social media (I use a pseudonym) and send friend requests which I decline, but I can’t be everything for everyone. I won’t say sorry – I’ll just say ‘no thanks’.
I spend time with my family and friends and I hold a sacred and sometimes all-consuming space for my patients and clients. I have learned to let go and learning that was not an easy lesson. By establishing boundaries, I’m happier and feel more secure than I ever have both personally and professionally, and while I have this blog, there are many facets of my life that remain private – things people will never know.
2016 will be my own year of no apologies because I’ve done the hard yards and have owned my shit. I hope this post doesn’t sound intentionally angry, but I won’t say sorry if you think it does. I’ve only ever been able to be
aggressive assertive with doctors who have lots of letters after their names because I’m terrible – really terrible – at confrontation. I am, however, very assertive when it counts, like when I’m sick and I need to self-advocate. I’ve advised several mums who have children with CF to ‘get their bitch on’ because sometimes, that’s the only thing that works. Here is my anti-apologist pictorial*:
I will not apologise for not being afraid of my own shadow or loving rock and roll.
I will not apologise for my pale skin or wearing a bikini with an imperfect body or the tattoo I have loved since I was 19. Or the vein mapping on the left side of my chest thanks to numerous DVT’s/clots.
I will not apologise for loving minerals. Or rocks, or crystals if you want to call them that. They give me strength, make me feel grounded and bring me back into my body.
I will not apologise for my bruises you CAN touch.
I will not apologise for enjoying using firearms in a controlled environment. And besides, if you need any organs, I’m a crack shot.
I will not apologise for NOT wearing makeup/face paint, or showing my vulnerability on the shittiest of days.
I will not apologise for demolishing a ginger bread house come Christmas time.
I will not apologise for only being able to draw rainbows and saying ‘fuck’ a lot.
I will not apologise for eating phallic themed desserts. Or any dessert, for that matter. Ok, ESPECIALLY phallic desserts.
I will not apologise for being a
bit of a hippie and banging on my Tibetan singing bowl. I love ritual and ceremony.
I will not apologise for asking questions and seeking answers.
I will not apologise for taking bathroom selfies in hospital clothes after I’ve spent time in isolation.
I will not apologise for loving flowers. Any flowers.
I will not apologise for twirling. It’s my thing and sometimes it’s how I get through the day.
I will not apologise for hugging the shit out of my best friends at every opportunity. Or hugging anyone I like or love. I will not apologise for public displays of affection. If I really like you, I’ll hold your hand and kiss you wherever and whenever the hell I want, and I’ll never be sorry for telling you how I feel. If I tell you that I like you, then I *really* do, and that’s called being very fucking vulnerable. I won’t apologise for that, either.
I will not apologise for having a medical history that may scare you. It does not define me or my future, and if you can’t deal with stories about me at my ‘worst’, then you will never know me at my best.
I will not apologise for being a secular chaplain who is spiritual and does not belong to a church. I belong to myself and the people I serve.
I will not apologise for taking feet selfies, because they are my most redeeming feature.
I will not apologise for writing every chance I get.
I will not apologise for knowing my worth.
I will not apologise for loving my nephews so much that sometimes it scares me.
I will not apologise for my rad transplant scar and the free breast lift I got from Medicare (and my new vagina). They might be scars (I call them beauty marks), but they’ve made me into a FUCKING WARRIOR. So yeah, fuck ‘sorry’.
*not an exhaustive list.