I don’t love my body.

To be clear, I’m not talking about how I feel about how hot (or not) I am, but about my physical body — the actual tissue and organs and gooey stuff that makes me go.

Problem after problem and surgery after surgery have forced me to accept that any love that I once had for my body is long gone. Our relationship is broken. The intuitive back and forth we used to enjoy has been replaced by a confusing (and often overwhelming) interface of bags, pouches, dressings, tubes and more. They allow us to converse, but re-enforce our growing distance.

For a while, I held onto the notion that with the right blend of proactive diligence and medical/holistic savvy, I might stumble upon some sort of magical solution — a little bottle that says “Drink Me” and restores my love for my physical body.

Alas, this isn’t Wonderland.

Instead of being lost down a rabbit hole, my body and I fight like mismatched detectives on a weekly crime show. We bicker our way to small victories every week, but the real villain always stays in the shadows.

Whether its hemorrhoids, dysreflexia, sleep apnea or the malady du jour, I’ve learned to do enough to keep my body running, but rarely at peak speed and performance.

I tried to love my body, and there were times where I came close. I’m glad I did it. I learned to interpret its physical signals and work with it if possible to make things better. When things were good, we made a pretty decent team, but I’d be foolish to ignore the overwhelming signs that tell me this phase is over.

There’s a part of me that feels guilty for owning up to my true feelings about my body. Whether as a result of my own insecurities, societal pressure, or some combination of the two, I’ve long felt a great deal of pressure to profess my love for my body. I worry that in some way I’m affirming the sinister ableist narrative that all of our disabled bodies are broken, ugly and unlovable — but I’m not.

24 years as a wheelchair user and 11 years with NEW MOBILITY have convinced me that body love does not discriminate along ability lines. I know plenty of disabled people who love their bodies with a passion, just as I know plenty of nondisabled folk who don’t love their bodies. What I am doing is being honest with myself, that my body is not in a great place.

A couple of columns ago, I wrapped up my Bully Pulpit looking into an uncertain future and ready to embrace something new. I was on the mend from a colostomy that seemed to offer the best hope for a truce and possibly even some healing between me and my body. At the time, I thought I’d found my way out of the rabbit hole. A few months and another unexpected surgery later, the future looks more uncertain than ever.

For a long time now, I’ve been living a lie — feigning a love that wasn’t real. I hoped my positivity would lead to improvement. I’m done with that.

Instead, I’m embracing the sometimes-ugly reality and accepting that the only certainty my body and I can look forward to is more uncertainty. We made it this far together and we’re not giving up yet. Each dalliance with hope has left me more skeptical of making lasting progress, but my direction remains unaltered: forward.