What my body remembers

On Breaking: Thank you, I'm sorry, and all the other things I meant to say

I cried last week. Not a quiet subtle cry or a muffled held back cry. It was an all-encompassing cry. An animal cry. A wet-faced, body-shuddering gasping cry. A full emptying of myself. A violent expulsion of all the grief and fear and pain that had been locked inside my body. All the things I had buried and forgotten. The things which my mind no longer remembered, but my body held onto like a prayer. A silent offering hiding in my bones, my muscles, and the myofascial lines that run through my body. Here, it said. You can let this go.

When I was trying to bring my son into the world and was told here he is, I can see him, I can see his hair, and then told no, something is wrong, he’s stuck, try again, keep trying, he’s coming soon, and then, no, it’s not working, it’s taking too long, he’s not coming, something broke in me. This gift of joy was being given and taken away over and over again and I had no way of knowing if I’d ever hold my baby in my arms. Laying on the operating table with my hands and arms restrained, I dissociated from my body. The connection, severed. 

At the time, it was a form of protection. A defense mechanism to cope with my current reality. A psychological escape. A disappearance. At the time, it was vital. But it’s almost been two years and the gap between mind and body never mended. It’s a canyon. A crack in the Earth. A crater I haven’t been able to cross. 

Until last week.