Muscles have memory, they say.
I'll be back to fightin' shape in no time.
It's a good habit for muscles to have... except in those moments where it's an absolutely awful thing.
My muscles remember being shackled.
The little girl across the way plays with a flashlight. She is maybe three or four years old, and it is her favorite toy. She fearlessly wields the light that sweeps over her horizon and laughs in delight as she magics a pathway through the darkness. She is joyful and beautiful.
I am terrified of her.
The ray of her flashlight enters my house through the front window. It passes over me and I stop movement.
My muscles remember the command.
I snap my head towards her, my body perched in readiness. I slowly process that I am not being summoned and I am not being told to freeze. Consciously, I lower my shoulders and shake the stress from my neck.
I take a deep breath, and everything is fine.
She's just a little girl, partaking of the freedom we both now enjoy.
But then she does it again, and the repetition doesn't even sightly diminish the response. She shackles me with her celebration and my brain is twisting them all together- the joy of a child's laugh and the confusion of stunted adrenaline. She is twisting me up, twisting me in, and breaking me down.
My muscles have memory, and they yield to her light, giving up their freedom without slightest fight.
My muscles have memory and they wake and bathe and eat on the schedule of imprisoned women, a group to which I once belonged.
A group to which I'll belong forever.
You'll be back to fightin' shape in no time, they say.
But the closest I ever got to fightin' shape was as property of the state.
My normal shape doesn't fight.
My normal shape melds, spills, contours and folds.
All my sharpest angles and deepest borders are products of loss.
Loss of freedom. Loss of love.
My muscles remember my love.
The little girl rises with the sun and the memory of his death. They rise to me, and blow me down.
I press his work gloves to my nose.
They are dirty and smell of sweat. Of debris.
My muscles remember, even after all this time.
Even after all this destruction.
They yield to him, and as my shape contours, I spill over my tallest walls.
My fighting' shape is no match for my lovin' shape.
I pack away the gloves and wave to the child across the way.
Her light shines over me.
His light shines in me.
It is painful to remember, but each stab tears away my angles.
The sharp ones.
The dark ones.
I'll be back to lovin' shape in no time, I comfort myself.
Muscles have memory.
I was going to get a new theme all set up here and I was going to finish reviving old Rarasaur posts, but the flashlight took a greater toll than anticipated. Combined with my project of sorting through Dave's possessions- and planning a birthday party- gah, I'm pooped.
It's somewhat funny to me that it's the flashlight (of all things) triggering a post-trauma reaction. Does anything silly and harmless trigger a stress reaction in you?
(And also, if you'll be in my area on August 29th, let me know. Word on the street is that there's going to be a rawrin' good party, complete with pie and coffee. You're invited, of course. Email me and I'll send you the details!)
