“Oh, geeeez”, she said, pressing the points where my neck and shoulders meet. I was face down, naked. Layered between sheets, a blanket on top for warmth, I was privy to her hands, slicked with coconut oil and whatever other oils she needed. I inhaled lavender, breathing in on the release, exhaling on the cutting pressure. Using her elbows, her forearms, she stressed, “They’re rock hard.” As if I didn’t know.
I didn’t know IT would be so hard. Physically or emotionally. Prostrate on the table, gravity and her hands pushed the ill-effects of recent turmoil out from my muscles, down my back, from my buttocks and legs, to a final exit through my toes. IT‘s no longer mine. The world can have IT to do what it will, or whatever it won’t.
Stony with worry and fear, an emotional uprising of my youth surfaced and creeped around at night, sourcing out hiding spots where it could cower undetected. Circles darkened under my eyes, pimples appeared, smiles were forced, fatigue conquered. For the past few weeks, I have not been myself. More appropriately, IT was my young self. The vulnerable child, the angry teen, the broken spirit that sadly piggy-backs them all.
The difficulty of writing my childhood memoir has forced a detour, more aptly, a construction sight. Intended words on paper detailing the events of the little girl I was and formed the person I am has backlashed. I didn’t know she was so rigid, so forceful, so rock hard. She used to be small, fragile, vulnerable, and now she is coming at me with a vengeance.
At night when she appears I hug her. I call her “Sweetheart”. I tell her, “Everything will be OK. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She’s scared. She’s voiceless. She’s meek. And she’s exposed.
And though she has hidden herself amongst my skin, hardened herself in my muscles, buried herself in my shame, I can’t let her hide anymore. She is beautiful. She is true. She is me.
And with any luck, she will be the world’s. I hope you love her.