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Winner of the 2019 Rutgers University Winter Showcase Award for Nonfiction\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n I want a refund. I want a company to blame. I want my problems to be solved with the ease of trekking to Target, standing in a long-ass line, listening to stay at home moms complaining about the dangers of toys with hidden hazards, and fighting the urge to buy those deliberately placed candy bars. The type of transaction where I approach the register with a fire in my eyes and a Hershey bar in hand and say, \u201cYou made a huge mistake selling me a defective product!\u201d Except the product is my body, and the high schooler in the red polo is not responsible for my pain.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But I have this dream\u2014an alternate reality where the boy in the red polo is, in fact, responsible for my customer satisfaction. And in this dream I have manners. So instead of yelling like a mom with a severely angled bob and bad highlights, I\u2019ll walk up to the register and say, \u201cHi. How are you today? I was wondering if I could return my body, please.\u201d And I\u2019ll pick at my cuticles as the cashier watches my face flush with red. It\u2019ll be embarrassing to make such a request in the middle of the body positivity movement, but I\u2019ll do it anyway. The employee\u2019s face will twist into a bewildered, puzzled expression. Then, he\u2019ll attempt to entertain my request for the sake of Target and my own pride, but he\u2019ll ultimately fail to resist the call of logic.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cSo, you\u2019ve waited 21 years to return this product?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWell, yes. I\u2019ve had it since birth, but I assumed it came with a lifetime warranty.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhen did the problems start?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAround five years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cFive years ago? And you waited until now?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We\u2019ve all neglected to return something before. Your estranged grandmother sends you a hideous XL sweater for Christmas, and you say you\u2019re going to exchange it for cash. But it sits on that chair in your room for months and months, almost becoming an essential piece of the decor. Then one day, after many days of saying that you\u2019ll get rid of it soon, you suddenly can\u2019t stand to look at it anymore. You remember that you are living with this ugly thing, and the restlessness of time compels you to send it away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n That\u2019s how chronic pain works. You live with it and function with it and ignore it, until the days you remember it\u2019s an ugly thing. You are suddenly faced with the reality that your insides are the equivalent of a dumpster fire, and through the pain you find yourself dreaming about returning your body to an establishment such as Target.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It\u2019s a beautiful dream, really. Think about it. Laying your body to rest surrounded by scented candles, quirky mugs, those Threshold plush blankets, Chrissy Teigen\u2019s home cookware collection, back to school supplies, Halloween costumes, Christmas decorations depending on the time of year\u2014now that\u2019s what I call self respect. You might even grab a Starbucks coffee on the way out, since they seem to be popping up in those new and improved Targets all over the nation.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But that raises the question of what you would drink it with. What mouth, what hands, what stomach? If I return my body, I\u2019ll have no other choice but to exist as a soul. No flesh. Just an aura. Just a girl who doesn\u2019t want to die, however morbid this dream may seem. I\u2019m simply imagining a way I can live in a world without continuous, unnecessary, random physical pain. Pain that makes me want to demand to see the manager, whether it be God, Fate, the Inner-Workings of the Universe, Nada, and fall on my knees while I cry \u201cwhy?\u201d over and over again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n So although I\u2019d love to float in a bodiless state of elysium while still on earth, I\u2019m not sure what I would have to live for if that was the case. Our bodies give us the best things: good food, watercolor sunsets, fresh nighttime air, songs that speak to the soul, electric physical connections. Without a body I couldn\u2019t do cartwheels in the strangest of places. I couldn\u2019t sing, I couldn’t run, I couldn\u2019t write, I couldn\u2019t dance, I couldn\u2019t cry. There is no feeling without the body. There is no feeling without the brain. But do souls think? Do they feel emotions? Will my brain come with me if I leave my body behind? If I were to become a soul I would want to be conscious, but I wouldn\u2019t want my brain to come with me. My head throbs constantly.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And we\u2019re back to the drawing board again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n What if I switched bodies? What if Target had bodies available for exchange?\u00a0 What if I could take my thoughts, hop out of this defective flesh prison, and move into the next one. Sure I would still feel pain, but not nearly as much.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Can I say that? Everyone feels pain, and pain is subjective. But theoretically, if I took up residence in a body of someone claiming to be in pain\u2014discomfort even\u2014would I feel it too? Have I been desensitized to the pain of living? Or am I grossly oblivious to the maximum level of pain humans can experience? Who knows? I\u2019d probably end up wanting to return my body to Target again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n However, in my dream, if a replacement body has been collecting dust in the Target storage room for years, I\u2019m sure it hasn\u2019t been ravaged by circumstance. It will be fine, for a while at least. I imagine it will have child-like resiliency and youthful healing abilities when I inhabit its empty space. And I\u2019ll run miles and miles as soon as I make it my home. Over hills, dipping into valleys, leaping across puddles. I\u2019ll run through all of the places I\u2019ve longed to run over the years. And it will feel different. I know I\u2019ll move slowly. These new muscles won\u2019t connect to my brain entirely. It\u2019s a classic transplant-rejection situation. The nerves and organs will be hesitant to respond to my brain, a foreign entity (am I bringing it with me? I want to retain my personality, but my head still hurts), but it’s not like the body I\u2019m in now responds either. It\u2019s combative. It fights my brain with more vivacity than a toddler throwing a tantrum in the frozen food aisle. So I don\u2019t care what this new body feels like. As long as it can run, eat, sleep, and exist like a normal person, I will revel in it and give Target the greatest online customer review of all time.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I guess it\u2019s settled then. I want a new body. But I don\u2019t want to look in the mirror and not recognize myself like in Freaky Friday<\/em>, or Drop Dead Diva<\/em>. Does that even matter though? I\u2019ve read No Exit<\/em>. I understand that we can\u2019t define ourselves by our exteriors. But if I know this, and claim to know it well, then why do I feel so connected to my appearance? I don\u2019t consider myself vain (but does anybody?). I like to think that I\u2019m a person who has found things to love about herself in the midst of the turbulence.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I can\u2019t imagine looking in the mirror and not seeing my red hair, a color I have come to define as the shadow of sunlight passing through mahogany sunglasses. My eyes, green jetties around the edges, golden in the center. My pointed nose, with constellations of freckles dusting it\u2019s bridge. Thin, pink lips that puppeteer the dimple on the left side of my face. Suntanned arms. The little mole on my stomach. Legs that have surprisingly retained their muscle after sporadic cycles of rest and activity. Even the scars stretching across my legs and arms. Even the random bruises and cuts dotting my pale, red tinted skin. The replacement bodies at Target wouldn\u2019t give me nearly as much satisfaction. I have grown with this skin and I love it. The body positivity movement tells me to. I have taught myself to. But what I see in the mirror is not the problem.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I do not love my insides. I am not a proponent of the faulty blood flow, the sharp nerve pain, the unexplainable numbness, the ceaseless twitching, the rumbling of a constant headache, and a brain that feels stuffed with cotton at the worst of times. I do not know how to love this. The body positivity movement does not tell me how to love this either. There is no map. There are no directions. There is not a set of rules to follow when your body turns on itself, or the environment turns on your body. Can you love it? Should you love it? I don\u2019t think I\u2019ll ever be content loving something that doesn\u2019t love me back. And I don\u2019t want to love it back. It shouldn\u2019t be like this. It can\u2019t be like this forever.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Target, please take it back.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Or, if you can\u2019t do that, please give it a name.\u00a0Define the disparities, I\u2019m begging you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I might be able to love it if the source of my pain had a name. A name gives way to explanation. A single word grants access to a built in community support network.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n All I\u2019m asking for is a name. A simple word like diabetes, or cancer, that evokes the proper amount of concern, nonchalance, and scientific understanding when spoken. A few letters that will keep all of my anger and confusion and pain contained in a tidy little box. I\u2019ll even top it with the bow I bought from the birthday aisle.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m asking for a refund, sir. Compensation for my suffering. Anything will do as long as it doesn\u2019t have to stay like this.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Silence.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He is not God.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Even God might not be God.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n At this point in my transaction, I will throw down two dollars, take the Hershey bar, and begin to make my exit.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll be back in a few weeks with the same complaints.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And for now, the chocolate bar will stand as the first of many actions I take to remind myself that this body can bring me joy. These efforts will hold me over until I can\u2019t stand it anymore. Then they will hold me over again. And again. And again. Until finally, there is an exchange.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n<\/h5>\n
Julia McMillan is a junior double-majoring in Public Health and English who loves to write in her free time. She is very passionate about bringing awareness to the issues surrounding chronic illness through her writing and hopes to pursue a career that allows her to advocate for the chronically ill in creative ways.<\/em><\/h5>\n
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