Literally Titanium - Process

This piece was published in August 2018 in the Feminist Space Camp Magazine

In February of 2018, I was honoured to present a cabaret piece called ‘Literally Titanium’ at UofT’s Festival of Original Theatre. I played my body as a character, with the premise that it was getting the chance to air its grievances against me — my mind, spirit or consciousness, through the use of short arrangements of pop songs.

My body is the focus of a lot of my day-to-day life. As a disabled, chronically ill, fat woman, I am perceived first and foremost as a representative of my physical form. Many conversations revolve around my body, whether with medical professionals, through me pushing for the accommodations that I need, or others demanding to know why and how my body exists the way that it does. My body also serves as a platform for my decision making process, informing how I spend my day, both in terms of the accessibility of my plans as well as my personal stamina.

For something so central, however, it’s shocking how strongly I disassociate from my body. My language separates ‘me’ from ‘my legs’ or ‘my veins’ or ‘my digestive system’. They belong to me, but they are their own entities. So separate, in fact, that I frequently personify them, and project frustration toward them in a futile search for external catharsis.

That realization prompted the initial idea for ‘Literally Titanium.’ If my body was personified, the way my language so often suggested, then would it not be entitled to its own agency? What was my body’s perspective on the life we’ve lived together?

I’ve been asked the story of my condition so many times that it exists on autopilot. I have a connective tissue disorder. Looking back, I had symptoms my whole life. We thought I was clumsy, accident prone, and overly sensitive. But when I was 17, things came to a head with severe neurological symptoms that started a five-year search for a diagnosis. In 2015, I had two neurosurgeries that involved reinforcing my spine with titanium plates and screws. The narrative is so well worn that sometimes I forget that it’s true.

When I first began formulating the structure of the cabaret piece, I expected to portray my body as a bit of a toddler, or perhaps a melodramatic teenager. I couldn’t fathom my body as a sympathetic character and so I imagined it as my inadvertent oppressor, operating through a mixture of ignorance and drama.

As I started to write, however, I realized that my characterization was hollow. It felt mean and unfair. I was animating my body only to use it as a punching bag.

So I wrote down the bullet points of my over-told narrative, and tried to strip them of judgment. I tried to imagine a world where each moment was reasonable. Where my body was the hero.

And then I didn’t have to try anymore. If my body was its own being, then we were in a relationship. A messy, co-dependant, beautiful relationship. And if we were partners, then neither of us could be fully right or wrong. Twisted together, every thought, feeling, and action was a cause that affected the other. I started to see us as two entities who love each other, and want to support each other, but sometimes lose track of that by slipping into ourselves.

I initially envisioned ‘Literally Titanium’ as a purely comedic piece, and while it still lived primarily in that genre, it started to morph into something more earnest. I didn’t want to simply poke fun at my body anymore; I wanted to honour it.

When I told my friends about the cabaret, explaining that I was playing my body and examining our relationship, the initial reaction I got was confusion. We think of how we feel about our bodies all the time, but we never consider how they feel about us. It seems almost childish to do so, fantastical, and irrelevant.

And yet, by sitting back and thinking about it, my relationship with my body has changed. I’ve noticed my language shift subtly, and my understanding of self-care has transformed. By acknowledging my disassociation from my body, and creating a space for it to be more than the shell that I live in, I feel more connected to it than I did before.

When we are objectified, we become objects. We are expected to be stationary and I have done my best to comply. Through my life, I’ve worked hard to sculpt myself into the most pleasing structure possible, contouring my shape, painting and decorating my surface, and stifling any variations that develop. 

But I’m tired of being stationary. I’m tired of trying to fit into a box. I’m tired of trying to be a box.

I am my body. 

Miraculous and flawed, and trying my best.