LEAN IN AND LET GO

News flash: the only way out is through (diary entries)

I’ve been spinning crop circles into my hometown, the way horses stampede. It’s been a month or two and I’m running laps like a teenaged track star. My grandfather was one of those, back in ‘58, he brags that he had a girlfriend at every high school in our county. He can say stuff like that because my grandmother has been gone long enough for dust to settle over all the picture frames and porcelain figurines. Long enough to leave fingertips grey while opening cabinets. Sometimes, when the gameshows have glazed over his eyes, we venture into the yard; he watches the lizards and I lift my shirt enough to expose my stomach to the sun. At this point he strikes up an argument, loosely veiled boredom.

My phone is ringing and D is on the other line. Exchanging the usual pleasantries, just killing time before we resort to beating the same dead horse; Can you believe it? And I can, nothing’s changed. I love her more each time she feigns surprise. The heat is dry and my skin is scattered with hives, I’m scratching like a flea-infested stray. When I peel off my sleeves at the yoga studio I spend the whole 75 minutes reminding myself not to itch. The instructor warms her hands with that organic smoothie breath before placing them on my hips to adjust me deeper into the position. Lean in and let go, she insists.

In child’s pose I bite the rubber of the mat to stop myself from snapping back. Because what if I can’t? Have you ever considered that? Though I’m sure she has, this naivety is momentary. I’m the youngest in the class, to my left is a tired mom of two and the room is littered of variations of her. In the mirror I catch their eyes linger. I let it feed my ego like I’m getting applause at the year three talent show. I never signed up, of course. That was the time I was knee-deep in molestation; the incestual kind, if you were wondering. Sometimes I think it stunted me but when I stand with my straightened spine—rolling back my shoulders—I’m 5’8, above average height.

I know that it happened because I was there, the trout trying to evade the brown bear; swimming upstream but he sticks his whole head under. Or, clawing his way into my polka-doted dress, if you want something more on the nose. People tend to want the details. Gruesome, like a gutting fish: 1. insert a sharp knife into the vent and make a shallow, upward cut along the belly 2. open the chamber, pull out the entrails, and cut through the gills to remove them if keeping the head 3. scrape out the bloodline, rinse thoroughly with cold water, and clean the cavity.

My parents want to know what happened and my mother is appointed to do the talking. It’s more of an interrogation, really, the five Ws: Who, What, When, Where, Why. I’m nine or three or twelve and I have nothing to disclose. What do you mean you don’t know? I lack the language, I am written off as a liar. But I’m not an imaginative child, I can scarcely play pretend or script scenarios. It happened, but it didn’t. I was there, but I wasn’t. This body isn’t my own, I can leave it for the time it takes for him to stroke my hair and pant over me, ejaculating. Earlier, I had fallen off my bike, gotten gravel stuck in my knees and palms. The only thing I remember is the walk home.

When I had outgrown his affection I thought such antics were done. I was too old, my prime behind me like a retired ballerina. Spinning on bruised toes. When it happens again I almost find it funny. I’m nineteen and swearing on the dead dog that this is love. At least it’s polite; she waits until I’m asleep and is careful not to wake me. This is our dance, who am I to spoil the fun? I keep my eyes glued shut, I steady my breathing to disguise my stirring. It drags on for a year, in the bed we built high. Sometimes between dreams, sometimes in the early mornings.

But I’m keeping score; I am memorizing the weight of her body pressing me into the mattress like a dried flower between hardcovers. I am gathering field notes: she tidies piles of clothes on the floor, she brings over tubs of ice cream, she slams the bedroom door. She touches us both at the same time, an absurd use of ambidexterity. The corridor fluorescents flicker, the five flights are too steep. Boxed wine on New Year’s Eve. The elevator breaks down at least once a week. She’s wearing my grandfather’s flannel, she’s bending to her family’s will. She hits my cervix in the shower, I couldn’t hear you over the water. She’s being a good daughter. I collect evidence. The Willamette river kisses our ankles and she’s grabbing me by the wrists. It’s all limbs and I’m becoming the perfect witness.

It comes to a halt the next August. I prepared my statement in the midst of the harvest and repeated it like a routine prayer. I told my friends over coffee, confided in strangers at the club between bathroom stalls. Whispered to new lovers with my face hidden under the covers. I cried to my mother and wrote wet pages in my diary. Sat across from doctors and therapists and psychiatrists in sterile offices. Do you believe me? I am reciting it all dutifully. I chewed it over like a lousy steak and kept the tough meat between my teeth. Clenched my jaw between countries and cities. When it was time to move on I hid her under my tongue.

I held on until my gums bled. Repeated it to myself every night before bed. Mulled over the memory like melatonin. Under the hum of the ceiling fan I finally see the toll of this weight on my body. News flash: the only way out is through! I have eroded like the car’s leather seats. Like the California cliffs against the coastline. One hand on my stomach, the other on my breast; yoga practice says this is constructive rest. It’s used to cultivate awareness, calm the nervous system, and connect with the breath. I can let go and it’ll still be true. Clinging to the sheets like a child, I unclasp my tight grasp and never look back. The horse has been dragged out from the pasture and beaten brutally. Grab the gun and put it out of it’s misery.