This post discusses bodily functions, shame, loss of bodily autonomy, dependence on others, self-hatred and feelings of worthlessness.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from living in a body you can’t completely rely on.

And I’m not just talking about physical exhaustion, but the mental exhaustion.

The constant calculations.

Can I go out?

How long will I be gone?

If I go alone, I can’t use the toilets…

What if something happens?

What if someone notices when it does?

There is a level of planning that becomes completely invisible to every one else.

People see you leaving the house. They don’t see everything you had to think about before you left it.

They don’t see the contingency plans. The anxiety. The quiet calculations about how far away you are from somewhere safe.

And then there is the embarrassment.

The kind that makes you want the ground to swallow you up.

The kind that makes you want to disappear.

When your body does something you desperately wish it hadn’t, there is this awful sense of humiliation attached to it.

You feel dirty.

Degraded. Dehumanised.

Undignified.

And I hate that word because I am still a person.

I am not less intelligent. Less capable. Less worthy. Less deserving of dignity because my body doesn’t behave in the way I need it to. But it can feel that way.

There is something deeply upsetting about having to clean up your own body – or rather, having someone else clean up your body – after it has betrayed you.

The help you require feels like another betrayal.

There is something deeply upsetting about feeling like you have lost control over something that should be completely private.

About worrying somebody might smell something, notice something, hear something, or realise what has happened.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t even what happened.

It’s what your mind does afterwards.

The shame.

The self-consciousness.

The constant replays.

The wondering whether someone noticed.

The feeling that everyone is looking at you when, realistically, they probably aren’t.

The urge to withdraw because it feels safer than risking another humiliating experience.

It changes the way you move through the world.

You become hyper-aware of your body.

Going somewhere unfamiliar can feel like a logistical operation.

You stop taking things for granted.

And sometimes you mourn the version of yourself who didn’t have to think about any of this.

The version of you who could simply leave the house, or be left alone, without wondering whether your body was going to make that decision for you.

I think people underestimate how much dignity is tied to bodily autonomy.

I think we like to imagine that being independent means being able to do everything for yourself.

But sometimes independence is more basic than that.

Sometimes it’s being able to trustyour own body.

Sometimes it’s being able to leave the house without fear.

Sometimes it’s being able to go to the toilet whenever you need to.

Sometimes it is simply being able to exist around other people without worrying that your body is going to expose something deeply personal about you.

And when you lose some of that autonomy, it changes how you see yourself.

It can make you feel like your body is something that is happening to you rather than something that actually belongs to you.

Today is a hard day.

Self-hatred is at the forefront of my mind.

I feel dirty.

I feel humiliated.

 I feel worthless.

But I am trying to remind myself of something:

My body failing me does not make me a failure.

Needing help does not make me less human.

Having accidents does not make me disgusting or worthless.

And losing control of my body does not mean I have lost my dignity.

I am still me.

Even on the days where my body tries to convince me I am anything but.