What I Would Give to Have a Healthy Sense of Self

When Shedding Your Skin Is Not Enough

Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash

Confession time: I’m taking meds and struggling with the complicated morality of it.

I’m getting weekly semaglutide shots and I don’t know how I feel about it. I have no judgement issues with taking medication that supports your wellness journey. The moral dilemma I have is that I don’t have an active prescription for it…and yet I am willing to compromise my health for an ideal that is not my own.

I’m not going to argue whether I should or shouldn’t do something. We all make choices that serve who we are in that moment. I could easily wait to see if a physician would look at my lifestyle, medical history, and then hope their own projections aren’t factored in to whether they want me to take what is often referred to a a quick fix.

I’m having some side effects that the “hospital of Google” says is normal and yet every Sunday night I sit with my thoughts and feel a combination of shame and sadness. What is it about my perception of self that would have me risking my physical health for a medication that may or may not help? Why couldn’t I wait until a doctor deems it OK?

I rationalize it in my mind and say well if junk food poisons our body, why do we socially accept that so freely but not something to curb the emotional eating behavior? What is the hangup with wanting ease and simplicity?

Do we have to suffer in order to give credence to pain?

I’m also in a weird headspace about why I’m willing to sacrifice myself for an illusion of perfection. I’m writing this on the express D train, en route to getting my driver’s license renewed, and feeling all sorts of bad for leaving work 10 minutes early to do so. I’ve set the expectation that if I am willing to exploit my well-being, others should be allowed to do the same. And I use that train of thought with the shots.

If I’m willing to drink 7 glasses of wine and 2 shots of Patron, then how is that any different from taking unprescribed medication?

I’m in my messy era. Nothing make sense and I will go out of my way to justify it. I really am that close to quitting on the spot. It might curb all those cravings I can’t seem to shake.

We champion the butterfly and thank the caterpillar for its’ sacrifice - but what of when the cocoon is reflecting a limbo state of ugly? How do we categorize that in-between space where internalized chaos becomes the default?

I would love to have healthy self-esteem. If I did, I wouldn’t need this Substack. If I did, I’d be so much further than where I am. If I did, I wouldn’t hate that I’m not where I expected to be at this stage of life. But this is where I’m at.

Mid-life reinventions are full of messy moments, when the cocoon becomes unbearable and the light of day feels like it’s always just slightly out of reach.

I’ve been resonating with snake symbolism and wonder if it is because I constantly feel like I need to shed my self. Snakes are spiritual beings, moving in slience and with a lethal bite. I don’t feel lethal in any way but Pluto jacking up my first house has definitely given me an aire of destruction. Figuring out how to move in this world knowing that your presence rattles others is a daunting realization to have. It’s why I wonder about my own dysmorphia.

If I don’t reflect the vision that is palpable to the masses, am I worth the effort?

I can’t articulate how much I fucking hate nuance. It’s admitting that two conflicting things are true at the same time. It’s acknowledging how small I aim to be in a world that thrives with me being big…figuratively and literally speaking.