RECOVERY

My first MRI.

Last Thursday.

I don’t tend to ask medical questions.

I don’t tend “to do” medical things.

After being sick for a decade, medical things and I had a big break up.

So . . . having an MRI, hearing myself say “I’m having an MRI” to some friends felt strange – like I was finally joining the masses of humanity. Growing up and getting reasonable – suddenly.

But still, I didn’t ask any questions.

Just made an early morning appointment, didn’t wear any metal – which if you know me was a bit challenging – and showed up bleary eyed with a bunch of workers comp folks.

I had heard it was loud. Told that if you have issues with being in confined spaces, it might be tough.

I don’t consider myself claustrophobic. Throw my 5’3 and hopefully ¼ frame into a crowd of thousands and I am happy as a clam. I will even lead you taller humans through this crowd.

Put me in a hot elevator with a bunch of sweating people – just fine. Crowded concerts and the T on Red Sox day . . . perfect. I love watching people.

But . . . put me on my back in a confined space with the ceiling a few inches from my eyeballs . . .

TERROR!!!

I was born a Libra with an older brother who was exciting and charismatic, and a mom with the same charms. It never occurred to me to outwardly rebel. You wouldn’t catch me throwing a temper tantrum or chucking my food on the floor. However, a very independent soul was hiding out beneath this serene surface. (Aquarian moon!)

I carefully picked my methods for self-assertion.

When I was an infant, I refused to crawl. I also did not begin walking at “the normal time.” Instead, I devised my own method of transportation:  I rolled on the floor, from one end of the house to the other . . . which frequently resulted in trapping myself, supine, underneath the family couch!

And I DO REMEMBER THIS!

I remember metal coils right at my eyeballs – and then being paralyzed!

(I think I had to be rescued.)

(This I don’t remember.)

So . . . the thought of being in some loud enclosed plastic donut was daunting.

Okay . . . terrifying.

But, I didn’t let on.

____ ____ _____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____

They call my name, and a door in the tiny waiting room opens and some tech waves me in. I had imagined this MRI room would be somewhere deep within the annals of this Beverly Hills Office Building, but it seems like it’s just a part of the waiting room.

Tech guy hands me some shriveled yellow earplugs. I ask for the music and headphones I read about online. He shakes his head no. I try to ignore the donut taking up the entire room and put in the earplugs.

They don’t go in.

Tech guy is getting antsy as I try to squish them in my ear and nervously tell him I have weird ears – sorry – most things don’t fit inside me – and realize how that sounds, and there’s nowhere good to go with that . . .

He keeps jerking his head toward the “bed” that he has pulled out for me . . . looks at his wrist. I guess we are on a tight schedule. Shit. All of those worker comp guys just behind the door.

I’m out of time.

I drop the earplugs – shrug and climb onto my hard white palette.

Close eyes.

Close eyes before going in.

I do.

I can do this! I meditate every morning for 20 minutes!

I am a healer.

I am a psychic.

An astrologer.

I CAN DO THIS!!!

In I go.

Okay.

Breathe.

No – don’t breathe a lot.

Not like in PT – where I seem to fail at my breathing exercises.

Breathe shallow or I might move.

What happens then? If I move?

I’ve been told not to move, but if I do . . .

I fail?

I don’t get fixed?

I lose something – or god forbid – I have to do THIS AGAIN?

I focus on breathing not breathing – and keeping my eyes shut.

And then the first loud noises – like some weird mutant Godzilla sized woodpecker.

Ok. I’m doing ok.

I can handle this. No problem.

Wait, my left leg twitched.

I didn’t do it.

It did it –  my leg – not my fault.

Does this count as moving?

Oh shit . . . the thing I am on is moving or adjusting.

FUCK!

Eyes almost opened – and then:

ARTILLERY FIRE LOUD!!!

Eardrums freaking out – left one popping.

Oh shit. Not good without noise cancellation.

What if this ruins my ears – and my “golden ears” for producing are shot.

SHIT!

Ok . . . breathe . . . shallow.

Sound stops . . . I see . . . Europe.

Yes, lavender fields, good. I can do this, my own guided meditation.

FUCK!!!!!

ARTILLERY AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!

So loud in eardrums it flutters my eyelid almost open.

Oh shit.

I’m in a trench.

GAS MASK ON!

Artillery . . . fire . . . bombs . .

What the hell? I’m in dirt . . . no mud.

Cold wet mud . . . frightened . . next to other young men . . .

HOLY SHIT!

I’m having some WW1  “recovered memory”  or past life flash . . . but where the hell am I? What battle?

I search the scene for clues . . .

Now Godzilla woodpecker is back. I don’t need him.

 Silence.

I am finding the silent moments are actually harder than the artillery. The anticipation of that barrage is worse than when it happens. And I want to go back . . . find out what battle I am in . . .

Fuck!

My right toe just curled on its own.

Not me! I swear!

BAM!!!⇒!!!!!!!⇒!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>!!!!!!!!!!!!⇒BAM!!!!!!

Back in the trenches.

Fuck! I’m going to die here. Blown to bits by the Germans.

I don’t want to die like this!!!

Trench adjusts. Breathe. Remember to breathe. Shallow.

Gasmask is choking me.

Think of my girlfriend back home.

Wait. I don’t have one.

Fuck, I’ve got to do this alone.

!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>!!!!!!>>>>>>>~!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

BAM BAM!!!!!!!!! . . . ! More Artillery.

This is intense!

I knew about WW2 – when I was a French girl with an American lover who left me in Alsace Lorraine – but WW1?????

I’m an American or Brit guy . . . in a trench . . . with a fine taut body underneath my torn uniform . . . green eyes . . . this is cool . . .

Damn.

Pulled out of trench back to Wilshire. Beverly Hills.

To being a girl.

Shouldn’t the woodpecker be back?

Still silent. Don’t move.

I’m still under something. I can feel the enclosure around me – hard white plastic . . .

I want to open my eyes.

I dare not.

I can’t lose it this close to the end.

I made it through WW1.

I can’t lose it in a cold room all by myself  inside a machine – in Beverly Hills!

I feel my body pulling out of a tunnel.

Something touches my right shoulder.

“You’re done.”

Tentatively, I open my eyes to fluorescent lighting and the tech guy smiling down at me. Nicer than before.

“You okay?”

I nod – roll up and off my palette.

Walk out into the lobby with another lifetime ahead of me … and another one behind me.

Recovered.

RECOVERY.

 

(It is the 100 Year Anniversary of the Start of WW1).

 

PARALYZED BY PAIN

I’ve been afraid.

Afraid of every little thing.

The knock at the door – the opening of my front door.

Afraid to open my windows at night – and then to reach my hand into the metal mailbox with loose knob and pull out the bills and junk mail.

I’ve been afraid of blocked numbers on my cell phone – and my emails.

So afraid of the telephone ring that years ago I permanently turned off the ringer the buzzer the vibrator . . .

Out went any landline. Terrifying.

I’ve been afraid to SAY WHO I AM

Afraid to STAND MY GROUND

And then freaked out at the prospect of sitting down.

I’ve been paralyzed at the thought of having to give up my music – and yet  I’ve been unable to take the guitars – my beautiful guitars – from their stands and play them . . .

I’ve been afraid to put down my pen and too traumatized to type the damn words into my computer – spooked at the notion of releasing my scribbles to the world – – –

Not because of failure or fame – but because there is so much too much . . . and how to write my truth without causing pain.

 

Ahhhh . . .

THERE IT IS: I have been terrified of pain.

CAUSING IT OR ENDURING IT

I HAVE BEEN PARALYZED BY PAIN.

I’ve written about loss and tossed it with the rest. I’ve undressed my desires and placed them in overstuffed drawers.

I’ve made lists of pain: named the perpetrators and particulars:

: the suicide, sexual abuse, betrayals, financial disaster, life upturned, hopes burned, best friends plotting my demise, loss of home loss of love heart shattered into irretrievable shards on the ground – broken necks, broken bodies, feet run over, lies, guile, deceits ___ and even a restraining order:

And still too stunned to mark dash and release words into the world.

Dizzying plot lines, 180 twists, 360 reversals . . . my head’s been spinning for a good four years as I have gone further and further into the denial of who I am . . .

AFRAID

I can name the starting point: it was most definitely the suicide and then subsequent threat by my ex’s therapist that she the ex, still alive, might now be triggered and commit suicide.

I can name that PLOT POINT 1 >>> but the seeds had to have been there, already planted.

I don’t remember a time where I didn’t know I was the one to be in the corner – named the observer – not the doer – by my parent – and decidedly – not the favorite.

I took this in stride in my seemingly non-emotional big picture view of my world – and then wondered on why I had to be a girl this lifetime around because it certainly wasn’t ushering in favor.

In fact, it became danger all too soon – to be born the fairer sex . . .

and I learned to shut down and walk small because I didn’t like being bullied by the son of a good family friend and pinned to the floor – spit dripping from his mouth onto my face as he begged for:

“one little fuck”

hurting my wrists, digging his knees into my ribs until I stopped squirming:  And got really still – and told him:

He was being asinine – I was only 10 . . . and I turned that word over and over again in my mouth: Asinine:

“YOU ARE ASININE

I AM ONLY 10!”

I watched as that big word between us became my weapon – stalled him – bewildered him enough to loosen his grip for a second – and I slid out from under his overweight sweating body  –  announced that I had to go downstairs to help my mother clean up the Thanksgiving dishes . . .

And so a word became my mace – saved me from something I don’t ever want to know . . .

But this word never left the room – was never spoken to my mother.

“Mommy: Benji pinned me to the ground and said he was going to fuck me . . .

but I told him he was being asinine.

He was being asinine, Mommy. I’m only 10 years old.”

Instead, I wrote my words in notebooks and turned them over and over again in my mind, caressed them loved them as they healed the things I could not feel, could not express in real time.

But they never came out into the world unless yanked out of me for some scholarship or ticket to an “A” to pay for school.

And then I began to sing!!! Use my words in song!!! What a joy!

An easement in releasing my feeling into the world – but I partnered up with a singer who stole all the consonants while I blended in ethereals – beautiful maybe – but undecipherable. Now hiding my truth behind the sea of melody.

AFRAID TO BE SEEN

 

AND WHY?

 

That pain thing again. Afraid of being pain causing pain being in >>> pain:

Afraid of naming my truth – for then I would be abandoned completely.

Write your stories would say my mother, sing the song said partner, but somehow I never believed that my pen my mouth my hands – all instruments in the expression of my heart – could save me from their removal of love.

If I spoke: I wouldn’t be loved.

If I sang:   I wouldn’t be loved.

If I marched on stage: I wouldn’t be loved.

The pain of not being loved, being abandoned for truth, for expressing my heart >>> left on the roadside for living my joy:

Too Painful

I cannot live that lie anymore.

I cannot be that afraid person.

The universe has tried over and over again to provide me with a set of clues I’ve been denying.

In the past few years, I’ve had every foundation ripped from my life.

When I’ve crawled around trying to piece things back together, then the holy universe has taken it upon herself to detonate everything in sight.

I MUST EXPRESS AND PUT OUT INTO THE WORLD.

There is no other way.

This IS my love.

HERE WE GO >>>

 

 

 

ABOUT THE LIP(S)

About the lips: I’ve been thinking on it.

More precisely: I’ve been thinking about:

      THE LIP

I surprised myself when I found it tenderly in my mouth and I bit down – just so.

This would not have been the way I planned it:

A First Kiss:

Hours circling your face your Celtic cheekbones red perfectly fleshed out lips – a set of upper and lower that goes so well together: housing your beautiful teeth magical innocent trail of a lilt lisp voice . . . . .

I would have planned it differently: that first kiss.

The hours circling round your mouth – the touch of hair to my cheek eyelashes fluttering close – yes butterfly kisses I swear I felt first! – all of this yes . . . . .

but not the bringing in of your lip to my mouth for a tender bite . . . . 

I would have planned it differently.

And herein lies the issue.

With you – no plan.

The beauty of you = being.

That’s the thing >>> being.

And so what came before did matter:

The hours of talk text the words formed luscious and round rough edges tumbled down like amber agate . . . smooth ruby red flecked granite pieces – these nuggets were coming to me for hours for days . . .

Through my phone – a dialogue begun – and though I read your words – I heard you say them to me each and every time every word every nuance every pause imagined your tongue gently touching darting the top of your palate behind the back of your front teeth to make that delicious wisp sound . . . and I heard you speak to me for days . . . . .

And then there you were: heat next to me: eyes looking into mine blue reflecting blue . . .

and hand on my thigh and then . . . cheekbones . . . and finally the lips – your lips – communicators of your soul language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . .

and it happened: like us: unexpected: sudden: in an instant

>>> SPONTANEOUS >>>

I had to taste where those words came from . . . like the salt from the sea from the last pages of Garden of Eden and the pink peeled grapefruit and the magic avocado . . . . . I had to bite down to feel their presence – to taste you –

and I didn’t think

and I didn’t plan

and I didn’t think on this being

      “the first kiss”

because it was a timeless present moment and my desire

to know to feel

to bite down just so was the thing . . . and there are infinite moments to circle your face your mouth your wisps your fine cheekbones and gently undress your mouth like it’s the first time: and I will:

what happens . . . is this . . .

but about the lips: The Lip:

it was like this: unexpected

Spontaneous present alive authentic

      wanted you . . . the taste

to taste where your soul language came from

      to taste you.

 

And so I did. I bit down into you – just so – to have you.