Letting The Rage Out, One Hair Shirt At A Time

I have gotten out of the habit of daily writing*.  Since writing the novel.  Since summer started.  I think my brain has felt the pinch.  My blog is my laundry line and it is my ritual to remove items from my head, completely random much of the time, and clip them the the line with clothespins made of air.  These things that come out of my brain seem like unwelcome guests crowding the floor of my head with all their discarded linens and underwear.  Fishy like all old guests they freshen up and bleach out on the line, where all the world can see. 

I have been thinking lately how my self denigration now feels like a very stiff and ceremonial donning of a hair shirt.  Punishment for self- like a slow and constant scratch against my skin.  I know that I put this discomfort on with all the deliberation of well thought out consequences for actions or thoughts that shame me.  So throughout the week when I feel myself begin that self inflicted meanness creeping into my head I hear myself saying "Ah, here comes the hair shirt!" or "Put the hair shirt back in the cell lady!" and it makes me laugh because this always congers up an image of myself slipping on an egregiously uncomfortable shirt made of stinky horsehair and then I want to take self portraits of myself like this, for you all to share in the joke. 

So mental hair shirts have been on my mind. 

I should hang the hair shirt on the laundry line.  Oh, I guess I just did!

I want to report that though I swore this year was going to be the one where I finally take my body back and lose the goddamn weight from the hip breaking incident, and instead I somehow ended up even fatter...I have kept to my promise not to apologize anymore for who I am.  I declare it, yes, and I feel humility being a very challenged person who is also sometimes challenging to know...but I'm not sorry about it.  I'm not sorry for who I am nor am I sorry that sometimes I'm going to make you very uncomfortable.

I know that several posts back I declared that this year was an epic fail.  That just isn't true.

So many inroads have been made towards a better place and this shit takes time.  We finally got Max diagnosed and into therapy- that's huge.  We went bankrupt which has allowed us to start fresh.  We finally got Max into martial arts and the big surprise being that we're doing it too.  I am drinking at least 50% less beer now.  (Let us gloss over the fact that I have replaced that with gallons of very fattening tonic water...let's celebrate that I am preventing myself from becoming an alcoholic.)  My meds are in the process of being readjusted.

I have spent so much time not being in touch with my own body which I have also come to hate in such a different way than I used to.  I have always, my whole life, been uncomfortable having to keep my spirit housed up in a body of skin and bones, but hating having a body in general and hating having THIS body...very different.  I keep thinking that it will get better when I lose weight.  Then I don't lose any weight.  Pile on more hate.  But I'm seeing now that the weight doesn't matter (I mean, it does, in a big way, but it isn't the most important thing I have to face) what matters more is that I learn to accept that I do have a body. 

Maybe that will sound idiotic to you.  Or maybe you know what I'm talking about.  I'll tell you this, my whole entire life I have itched inside my skin, itched to get out of it.  It's like my spirit is the wrong shape or size for the human body and it feels sick in there, caged up.  Perhaps that was part of the attraction to suicide.  That dying will allow me to be however I was before I was born and forced to live in this body.  I have always felt- otherly.  Not completely connected to my body.  I'm not actually sure I will ever be completely aligned with it- but what is profound for me is how I am, for the first time in my life, feeling more present, more in sync with my physical self.

It feels like I am really in my body for the first time in my life.

Nothing has ever shown me what that's like.  Yoga makes me hurt myself and doesn't release whatever crazy energy I have looping around my bones.  Yoga is supposed to be this transcendental meditative perfect and spiritual activity.  For me it has never felt all that fantastic.  Plus I am always wrecking my wrists.  I loved jogging and it felt grounding- but not enough to make me connect with my hands, my feet, my skin.  Going to the gym served a purpose but didn't bring myself together in that famous body-mind-spirit trio.  That's how magic happens.  I've done all kinds of sports (because my dad made me) and I've done all kinds of activities and all kinds of meditation.

It turns out that I have a lot of rage in me.  Fierce rage that has never found a safe outlet. 

If you have any rage in your body it has to find a way out or it will destroy you.

I was throwing punches tonight at a leather paddle which, when you hit it right, makes a loud SMACK! sound.  I punched the pads until sweat was pouring down my face and what's weird is that I could feel my eyes looking past the room into the fire and I could feel my muscles bunching (such as they are) and I could feel every part of my body being engaged.  Yet even as my eyes could see beyond the room, I was still completely present.  The energy pouring out of me is not tame.

I am fat.  I am out of shape.  It will take time to get into better shape.  What's great is that even though my middle aged body will force me to go slower than I'd like, I can feel that every punch, every kick, every exercise I do in my class brings me closer to myself and to a body that is useful and confident.  I am teaching my muscles to do my bidding.  I am teaching my spirit to live inside the muscles.  I am teaching my head to bring the honor and the love I feel into everything I do and it starts with these weirdly graceful beautiful motions I am learning to do with my body.  It feels circular.

What amazes me is that in spite of the anxiety which is wreaking havoc with me pre-class, when I'm in it I am so ready to throw myself into everything.  I had to sit out quite a bit tonight because my knee hurts but I wasn't sitting out because I was worried about doing the exercise and I felt impatient with my aching knee because my body wants to get into the fray.  This has never happened to me before.  It feels like a huge letting go and through letting go I'm suddenly hanging on better than before.

Every time I come home after Kung Fu class I am stunned, a little shocked, and feel a relief- like the caged animal that my spirit is has stopped pacing the narrow confines of human flesh and is being let out to fight, to brawl, to express itself, to exert itself.

Many people who do martial arts learn to make a noise when they do punches and kicks, and this is something I'm frightened of.  I am frightened because letting out a little growl or fierce yell could so easily turn into the scream I've felt welling up in me since I was very small.  The scream I never let out because if I do I'm pretty sure it will never stop.  It hurts to hold it in but to let it out feels infinitely more dangerous.  I think I will not force myself to yell when I punch and kick.  Not yet.  My teacher says it isn't required.  But I have to admit that when I see my teacher demonstrating the things he's teaching us- I feel such deep envy and admiration for how comfortable he is in every move he makes, in his body, his hands have the grace of a dancer's but are intensely strong, and to yell out fiercely is such a natural thing to do when exerting one's self violently- I can't say what it is yet- it's gorgeous, it's a warrior cry, and I believe that it's one of the ways you give your spirit its voice.

Our teacher talks a lot about Kung Fu being a very personal and individual journey and when he tells us that I want to say "You have no idea, Sifu!"  But then I think, yes he does, that's why he's teaching it. 



*I write daily, I just mean in journal form.  Here.  To get the riff raff out of my head.