It moves in quickly with an intensity that can't be mistaken. A heavy fog rolling in, darkening, misting, adding a weight to everything it touches, every single thing in its wake. Driving with my lights on my vision is impaired and I slow, knowing I can't see much past the hood of my car. A city, a place that on a clear and sunny day I know inside and out, has become a mystery. I am at it's mercy.
Desolate grief has moved in on me today much like the fog outside my window. I go about my daily motions, my daily schedule, one that I know so well, and yet every move I make takes added effort...and I know it shouldn't surprise me. I know there is plenty going on in my life right now that warrants the heaviness, the pain. Its presence, nonetheless, is an unwelcome guest, one I have asked to go away, and stay away, more times than I can count. So when she opened my bedroom door this afternoon and crawled into bed with me, I said nothing. Fighting with her took more energy than I had to spare. Instead I simply prayed she would go away. With her touch came memories. She brought me back to a year ago, working with Sam at Monarch, beginning to talk, hesitantly try to accept, the reality... the hell that was endured by that small child. She reminded me of the hope that sparked as things started to improve and yet of the gut wrenching pain... of the nights that I was literally in a ball in the closet of my bedroom sobbing from the weight of the pain, the pain of remembering. Grief then changed directions and took me back to that dreaded day, sitting on the couch with my mom and sisters, time standing still as mom told us through broken sobs that daddy was in heaven with Jesus. The memories were coming faster now racing back and forth from recent months and years to that stupid little girl doing everything she was told. Grief took me to sitting alone with my grandma at her facility in January putting cool cloths on her head and helping to re position her failing body to help her breathing become less strained, talking to hospice about how many more days, more hours she thought she had left...calling my mom to ask her if she wanted to come sit with her, because they weren't sure she would make it through the night. No, my mom said, I can't stand seeing her this way. Grief then took me to the evening when I would be the replacement for pornography, helping my boyfriend at the time abstain from his addiction, I became the filth to ease his conscious. The day my mom sat me down to say she had cancer and then the rape at the music studio in pacific grove, the white sign out on the curb as advertisement to the community for lessons, for me as an advertisement that my no means nothing. That's enough I finally say to grief. Stop touching me, stop cuddling against me for comfort as if I can tolerate everything you bring. If you must stay go sit somewhere else...and for God's sake stop crying. As she moves herself to sit against the wall I can't help but wonder what I did to invite her presence. She normally doesn't show up unprovoked, especially when anorexia is close by. The ice cold drug of numbness that anorexia spreads keeps most parts away. So I make a mental scan of my last 24 hours, trying to find a reason, and then it hits me. The book. That stupid book. Those stupid words.
I had been working the night before with the fussy newborn and she was finally asleep. I logged into Amazon to shop and as it often does, it so kindly highlighted some suggestions of merchandise, things relating to past purchases that I had once indulged in. And, in the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning, some would contend, I naively enrolled in something called Amazon student. A free 6 month trail enticed by free two day shipping sounded very appealing at 3 am. Books, it must have concluded. As a student, she must want suggestions of books. The last book I had purchased on that account had clearly been strongly encouraged by a therapist, some sort of PTSD workbook. Now, Amazon, displayed a book it thought i might like to try next. The title? The body remembers: The Psycho physiology of trauma and trauma treatment. The world stood still. The body remembers. Those three words spun through my mind and wrecked havoc on my heart. No. I screamed inside my mind. All sorts of my parts came to life. It might not be real I contended! It might not have happened. It might all be made up. None of it is true. And an almost audible voice would repeat the title once more. THE BODY REMEMBERS. All the memories- the smells that illicit a gag like reflex, the food on my hands that makes it hard to breath, the sound of running water, the taste and sight of blood ...And then the baby started crying. That newborn cry that cuts through your heart and makes every mother move into motion to sooth that pure innocence. I threw down my phone where I had been searching Amazon and scooped her up, placing her small head against my chest, hoping the sound of my beating heart would calm her until I could get her bottle made and her diaper changed. Shhhhhhhhhhh, I soothed her. It's ok and I seamlessly got her formula ready, diaper changed, and swaddled her it bitty body and fed her then quietly rocked her back to sleep. I forgot the book. I forgot that steady voice inside my head repeating those three dreaded words. With the baby in my arms it all went away.
That I concluded is why grief was sitting in the corner of my room. That was why she appeared. I knew it took a lot for her to remain present with anorexia...so strangely I knew her message was important. It's true, was all she said. Other parts sent me and they want you to know, they remember. Our body... Your body... Even if you won't admit to it. The body remembers and it won't forget..
