The truth about self-care

It's not a face mask and a glass of wine, guys

I stared up at the ceiling, black panelled screens hovered on top of me, a pretty tropical flower morphed into a lily while I lay, mouth open, the metallic tinge of blood in the air. Surgery. They told me there was no escaping it. My teeth had been worn down too much, the gum needed to be pushed back, cut off, the bone shaved, then the gum stitched back on again. The worst parts were the injections in the roof of my mouth and the last stitch, right on my fourth tooth, which I felt with a sharp zing as the needle pushed through tissue.

I had ghosted the dentist for over ten years, and now, I’d been every week since August. And not just to my local dentist, I’d been travelling to Harley Street. As I lay there and the dentist pushed hard on my freshly sliced gums to stop the bleeding, I felt proud of myself. I felt strong and resilient and powerful. If I can do this, I thought, I can do anything. Literally, fucking anything.

I came downstairs after and took a photo of myself where I look as if I’m in shock, bloody lips and the impression of the dental glasses pressed into my forehead, hair sticking up on end, then I continued to talk to my husband all the way home, until the anaesthetic wore off and I burst into tears.

For a week, I masked the taste of blood with ribena. I wasn’t able to brush my teeth, only to use mouthwash. I learned what scabs inside the mouth look like. It was definitely a process. I ordered a McDonald’s three times (which is surprisingly easy to chew after dental surgery). That was October and last Friday I had my new teeth done. It’s been a journey punctuated by throbbing, zingy pain, fear of brushing my teeth too hard and waking up in the morning with blood on my lips, but now, when I look in the mirror and smile, I could weep with relief. I have TEETH.

My old teeth represented years of grinding, stress, anxiety, fear, trauma. And they’re simply gone. Well, not gone, but made infinitely better. I didn’t do anything dramatic, a round of composite bonding completed in half a day, trust completely put in my extremely skilled dentist. I could weep when I think about them, and I know I’m going off course here, the point was not to brag about my new teeth, but I might as well, while I have you. THEY’RE BLOODY GREAT.

The point I’m trying to make but getting extremely sidelined while trying, is that self-care, I’ve realised, through the process of addressing my teeth, is not a medicube face mask, not a bubble bath or even those expensive frozen chocolate strawberries I love. Self-care is self-protection, self-preservation, self-belief. It’s painful. It’s hard fucking work. It’s getting 10k steps a day when you really can’t be arsed. It’s booking that dentist appointment and lying back with your mouth wide open thinking don’t-gag-don’t-gag-oh-god-please-don’t-gag. It’s sometimes expensive, requires saving for several months to get things addressed the way you need them to, but it’s often completely free. It’s standing outside with the frosty, lemony sun baring down on you while you reflect on your latest PB in Strava, it’s journalling every day even when you cannot be fucked to write a single thing. It doesn’t come in a bottle, it doesn’t get written in a magazine. It’s entirely personal. It’s entirely yours.

Since I’ve come to this realisation I have made some massive changes in my life. I’ve started therapy, I’ve begun tracking my hormones diligently (so I can make informed decisions about my fertility and also about my mood swings LOL), I’ve strapped myself to my desk chair and finally finished my first novel, which will be with my editor in TWO MONTHS! And I’ve been in the dentist more time than I’ve not. Medieval dentistry contraptions are my new norm. Yet none of it has been easy.

I used to think I could simply band-aid my issues with a face mask and a glass of wine. I hate to say but I perpetuated this myth with the articles I used to write when I was an editor. If you read my early work, shit like 5 Steps For A Successful Sunday Evening I am sorry (don’t judge me guys, it was the era of girlboss, people ate that up). It’s simply not true. Self-care is self-love, and a bath doesn’t change if you feel bad, or sad. Through therapy, I’ve been diagnosed with body dysmorphia, which no amount of bathing or moisturiser or wine could have helped, so what I’m saying is, self-care, to me, is defined by the difficult things you do in pursuit of becoming your best self.

If you’re pursuing self-care this year, then let it be worthy of you. Let it be something that changes you, that pushes you, that is uncomfortable (briefly) but leads you to somewhere much better. Life is short, each moment is fleeting, and you deserve to feel fulfilled. xx