Written on the body

The past few days I've been feeling more emotionally settled. I question that a bit though. I don't want to numb myself and push forward too quickly. I believe in the power and importance of healing and going through whatever I need to to get there.

He (Mark) called me the other night. I've been starting to feel hopeful about the future, feeling myself disentangle and accept the idea of a life without him. I was getting ready for bed, lying with my laptop and writing. My oh-so-pretty new iphone tinkled and I saw his number. I wasn't expecting to hear from him, not for a while. He was in an anxious place. I think he could sense me moving away from him, and cutting the threads that bind us. I'm not in a place yet where I can be a support for him so I felt myself barricading against, feeling the need to quickly patch together my undone-ness while we spoke. The conversation was hollow. I got off the phone, noticing the anxiety simmering in me from hearing his voice, seeing his number come up on my phone. I spent the night a bit restless, wondering if he was going to show up. I think he would respect my space enough not to, but he still has my keys. I once welcomed him crawling into bed with me at 2am because he just couldn't sleep without me. Now I want my keys back. And my pounds of organic frozen strawberries I have stored in his freezer. I'd really love it if he tossed in his chili recipe too. But I don't want to ask for too much.

***

Yesterday I saw someone who does neural therapy. It's a type of injection that is performed at certain nerve junctures and into scar tissue. The concept behind it is fascinating: that a scar carries an electric charge five times that of normal skin and can create an area of 'interference'. Nerve and muscle function can be compromised and random pains can pop up in the body. By temporarily numbing the area with an anaesthetic and a mix of homeopathics, the nerve resets itself back to its original state. Scar tissue is also encouraged to resolve. Rather, dissolve. Any emotional trauma that's since ossified in the scar will be released.

I've had an issue with sciatica for months now. An issue which started when I first knew this relationship wouldn't carry on, but I buried that information. My body hadn't.

Six months ago I was at a workshop. I was sharing with someone about my relationship and she asked me a question that totally caught me off guard. It was about Mark and in that instant I knew we didn't have a future together. I broke down and couldn't stop crying (the workshop was nearly over). I knew it was the truth but I so didn't want it to be. I stayed, redoubling my efforts to revive things. There were moments when we'd surge and then we'd fall flat again. Our flat was never awful, but I was still tolerating.

I could feel when the needle went in, and it's definitely uncomfortable in a dull sort of way. Then I felt a rush of emotion come up in me. I cried, and since it's expected, the woman who injected me just stroked my forehead and encouraged me to stay with it. I did, letting myself breathe and sob and eventually it dissipated.

The site she injected me at is also where I miscarried. I was pregnant seven months ago. Although in all practical terms, it was not the time for me to be having a baby, it felt really right to be pregnant. Maybe all women's bodies feel that way as some kind of biological predisposition. I felt alive, electric, radiant and beautifully feminine. In a world where all things are possible, and all paths are just parallel universes, I could envision it happening.

He couldn't.

After an agonizing weekend that highlighted other issues, we came to the place of agreeing we wouldn't have a baby. In the next few days I could no longer feel the buzzing in my abdomen or the slight cramping that indicates the uterus is growing larger. The tenderness in my breasts was less acute. I felt vacated.

A few days later I bled. The pain and cramping were excruciating. I went out to the forest to bury the embryo. I carried it with me for a few days until I could make it out to the woods. I would palpate it, this partially formed, almost-thing, trying to feel where it would have taken shape.

Since then, I've had a dull ache in my abdomen that's slowly spread into my leg and been bothering me ever since. The epicenter of that pain is wrapped up in those nerves and ganglion, tight and twisted and sad and disappointed. When the naturopath injected me there I burst into tears for a life that could have been. For the possibility of someone's hand on my stomach, curious and excited. And for me not leaving when I knew I ought to have.

When I look at the sign I hadn't heeded about a life that wasn't meant to be, and its subsequent albatross in my abdomen, I'm sad. For not listening to myself and honoring my wisdom. I also see how it's an art to heal a wound gracefully. To not keep picking at it (by being in touch with Mark) and succumbing to the urge to itch. The urge subsides and if I nurture the wound, it leaves its mark, but doesn't get in the way of things to come.