Being ill will humble you more quickly than anything. When you can't get out of bed, there's no need to feel self-important. When forced to rely on others for basic human needs, you realize how fragile and vulnerable you truly are. So, the best thing that ever happened to me was my inability to help myself, even though I didn't realize it at the time. The accident that caused my disability was horrific, and polio took its toll on my child body. These misfortunes came very close to killing me. However, the human spirit recognizes when it must continue, and if so, it will quickly heal.
As an adult, I was in excruciating agony. I was tempted several times to give up; to refuse surgery and live in a wheelchair. However, my work always startled me back to reality. It existed independently. There was constantly something to say. If I had been the type of person who didn't have a firm opinion, I may have accepted my fate as an invalid. I frequently thought of that word as meaning "not valid;" having no value, weight, or consequence. But squandering my life was not an option. I understood instinctively that life was valuable, and I couldn't afford to waste it.
I wanted to have a child because it would be another chance for me to leave my mark on the world aside from my work. Children represent our immortality. But it was not meant to be, and each loss took away a piece of my heart. It was as if every time we attempted to construct a tiny "us," God answered, "No." Then I'd dive into my art as if it were my gift to the world, my vibrant and bold child, bearing my name. But I could not understand why I was being denied the most basic duty of women, which is to produce children.
I couldn't comprehend why I had polio, which had withered my limb, or why the accident had punctured my uterus. My life was full of why questions. But "why" is the sole foolish question, because God never answers it with anything other than, "Because I said so." God is omniscient, able to view the entire timeline. God knows our fate from beginning to end, but He owes us no explanation. When we suffer, we shake our fists at God. Yet, this pain is permissible regardless of how heinous. And I began to feel that only souls in need of rapid evolution would be born on this world of incredible beauty and inconceivable anguish. What I did not understand is that God's retribution or fury does not chastise us, it is instead our soul's drive to evolve. And, while growth is proof of progress, it may be difficult and painful to achieve.
Strangely, my greatest anguish was not the disease that limited me. You can be physically unwell and still find joy in life. However, when you suffer mentally, when you are crushed like a flower, these stripes leave a profound and lasting impression. The words made in haste, or the acts committed may vanish with time, but the mark remains with you forever, much like a scar. And when you touch it, even if the trauma has faded, the anguish is reawakened. It is stated that there is no worse pain than a shattered heart, and I discovered this to be correct. I'd rather die a hundred physical deaths than walk around aching on the inside, which affects your attitude, productivity, and zest for life. Shakespeare was correct to write Romeo and Juliette as a tragedy, since genuine love ripped apart may depress lovers to death. They would rather die than be alone. It was more than a romantic concept; it was a reality in my life.
For those dealing with a shattered heart, I can only say this: you must learn to care for yourself again. When you love someone or something entirely, you prioritize them over yourself. You will deny yourself happiness, sleep, adequate nutrition, and even hope. You'll punish yourself in these ways because sadness always punishes, never rewards. I reasoned that a hunger strike would only injure me. When I became malnourished, a doctor intervened and directed a nurse to force-feed me a liquid diet. I was so depressed that I would rather die, and die by starving, a long and agonizing death. Why wasn't I prettier? Why had he chosen my sister over me? But nobody would let me die. Neither death nor grief could kill me. I considered myself an indestructible woman not because I chose to be, but because it was imposed on me. And with time, I felt like I had meaning and purpose again, and that my happiness was not reliant on anyone. God and I became partners, and we each performed our part. I prayed and believed, even if it was a private and silent faith, and God kept my shattered spirit alive.
Until the discomfort confined me to a wheelchair and finally chained me to my bed. I finished with a portrait of brilliantly colored watermelons, which was very different from the somber abstractions I had become renowned for. I wanted to leave the world with a sense of simplicity and purity, and what could be more wholesome and colorful than Mexican watermelon? I left behind a spot of bliss, a fruitful paradise. The pneumonia worsened, and I couldn't get out of bed. It ate me up exactly as the painkillers did. My story, my skill, my shattered body, and my scarred heart were all eaten up before I was fifty. Being broken my whole life was not my decision, but rather the result of entering this planet where ambitions are crushed so that we might learn humility. And Frida did.
With Love,
Frida
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