This is My nature: nurtured
to stand guard, every cell
trained to misfire, to tire My
atoms, exhaust each bond, bones
shattered, scattered, vigilant force
aimed toward exhumed
enemy ghosts, armies long dismantled, dust
and stone; white hot light from
distant stars that imploded long
before I was born, searing
Me still.
Does this word make you think of physical or emotional pain, or both? In what ways has trauma led you to be hurtful to yourself? What value does pain offer us?
As usual, I’m writing with no forethought and little editing. And as usual, what emerged wasn’t what I expected from the word. Fibromyalgia, the vicious phantom pain of it, the crushing fatigue, the connections I finally broke open (the number of practitioners who paused delicately, held my gaze for an extra beat as they asked whether there was any history of ongoing abuse or trauma, the passive phrasing not lost on me).
The grandfather, drafted (I think?) into the US presence in the Korean War, serving in a role that required little intellect or fortitude, another early emphasis of his powerlessness.
An echo of cemeteries, funerals or headstone unveilings for one distant elder or another, at which he would sob the loss of his own parents, dragging me into the sweaty, rank crook of his armpit as he forced his grief on me (my god, why did no one ever attempt to release me?), his arm damp, clamped around my neck, his tears and saliva and snot pooling where my hair parted.
I would use the visualization technique a teacher once taught me, when I’d mentioned insomnia: picture yourself, the bed, the room, the house, the street, the town, the city, the country, the Earth, the solar system, the Milky Way, the Universe. Slowly zoom out, until you’re not even there, and you’ll drift off.
The thing is, I am still here. It’s all still here, etched into places so small I have to reverse the process, zoom in, the lens growing stronger each time, find a tool fine enough to buff these pathways smooth again.
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