parts of me
I have the most delicate looking wrists. For someone my size, they're quite thin, swallowed up by watch bands and a good number of bracelets. Those bones on the outside seem to stick out quite a bit. But mine are rounded rather than pointy.
My left wrist has a birthmark, a lighter splotch that goes up toward the back of my hand. When I was a kid, it seemed like the most fascinating thing about my body, or an incredible imperfection, depending on my age. The right wrist looks mostly normal except for a spot near the fleshy part of my palm. I scar easily and have no memory of what I could have done to myself.
It took a while for me to notice that these wrists don't necessarily go with the rest of my body. Those realizations didn't come through my normal self-assessment. They came when I tried to buy jewelry or when others had something to say.
For a long time now, my left wrist has been damaged. The problem is not visible, but may have something to do with how delicate they are. The damage is courtesy of a relationship that was always abusive in a number of ways, and physically abusive on one occasion.
I don't remember the subject of the argument exactly. I know it was about someplace we would or would not go. This was a regular source of argument between us. As usual, I wanted to go out and wanted him to go with me. He didn't want to go. I was annoyed and disappointed and got up to leave without him. This was not the response he expected. He wanted me to stay.
I remember where we were--in the living room of a place I lived in at the time. My roommates were gone. It was weird. Af first there was a little irritation, but I sure as hell wasn't having a fight. So the next few moments seemed to come out of nowhere. I got up to leave, to go wherever it was that I had considered going before, movie, the grocery store, I don't recall. Then he grabbed me. I was stunned. That moment of violence had more passion than any other touch I remembered from him.
He put me back on the couch and held me down somehow, which I resisted. When I tried to get up, he grabbed my hand and forced my left wrist backwards. It hurt in a way that made me not struggle. I thought it would just hurt more. I remember being panicked but wanting to be quiet so my neighbors would hear. I was worried about what might happen if my roommates happened to come home. I wondered how far this would go.
After a bit of this, he got up and started moving across the room. I threw my slipper at him. He was genuinely outraged that I had hit him. I know I responded with something about what he had done to me. He insisted that he had not done anything significant really, that it hadn't mattered, hadn't hurt.
It's what I was used to. He said such things a lot, usually about what I wanted to do, my interests, or my feelings of being slighted. I know all the classic ways in which I was set up for this by my childhood, etc. But that's not the point of this entry. So I'll move on.
That wrist never healed. Most of the time, I don't feel pain there. But a few activities always aggravate it. Of course, if I find myself on my hands and knees, it can become an issue. One of the first times that memory came flooding back was during one of my first yoga classes in LA. I was with a friend who had convinced me to go to a gym to try this "new" thing. I was digging it until downward facing dog. It's a simple-looking posture that's hard to get right. For a split second, I could not figure out what was wrong with my left arm, why I could not support myself. Then I remembered that day and all the involvement that came after it. It was not a useful memory at the time, in part because it was still years before I could speak of the incident or the relationship honestly.
The injury also surfaces if I'm carrying something heavy with my wrist fully extended. Grocery bags are the primary culprit. Once again, the memory arises when I'm doing something basic for my own self care. I didn't cry then, but sometimes I do now. A number of things in my life have always been disordered.
Why does this memory arise now? One reason is that I have too much time to be in my own head. But more on that later. Another is that my right wrist is all messed up now. I'm sure it has something to do with where I put my computer in my office and the fact that it had been a while since I used a mouse. The degree to which it's messed up is impressive. I have these knots in my forearm tendons that can be felt really easily and at worst are visible. (But the wrist still looks delicate.). I've had it worked on by an acupuncturist; but my insurance doesn't cover that and I need more attention. When he "massaged" my arm, warm pain flooded into my wrist for days before I felt relief. Then the pain returned. I'm at a bit of a loss about what to do.
The double-sided pain means that some things I need to do, such as move books or get groceries, are hard sometimes and leave me in tears. These are not even the deliberate tears of grief or regret at the beginning. They're just automatic physical responses to the pain. Then they turn to the other kind if I let them go too long. At those points, I think about the fact that I could really use a little help. That fact and that first injury are closely connected for me.
Years later, apropos of nothing, the ex brought up the incident. This was after a troubled relationship that went on far too long, after I had only begun to learn about how I misplace loyalty, after a while of not speaking to him at all, and a rekindling of contact around superficial topics for who knows what reason. He was really surprised when I told him that the injury lingers, that it was probably a fracture. "I did that to you?" he asked. "I did something to you then that still hurts today?" I wanted to say that he had done a lot that still hurts, not in a way that's really about him, but in a way that's about my expectations and trust. But I don't think I said more than "yes." By the time we had that conversation, I wasn't at a point where the apology or the contrition meant anything to me. I was past the point of caring whether he suffered over it, or believing that was possible or really relevant.
I have a tendency to be really private in a way that's not entirely deliberate. It takes a conscious effort and often some prompting for me behave differently. And it was worse when I was younger. I didn't tell anyone about this incident, in part because I doubted anyone would believe me. We looked settled from the outside. And I thought no one would believe he was capable of such an act. I also figured that if people did believe me, they would blame me. The thing now is that I don't know whether that's true. I didn't give my friends a chance to be friends. Instead, I separated from them. Looking back now, I'm sure embarrassment was part of the reason.
This brings me back to another recent occurrence which raised the issue for me again. I heard from a friend about ongoing relationship violence that I'm beating myself up for not noticing. I do remember observing some things that made me realize that I would not want their relationship. But I never suspected violence. And apparently it has always been present. Now I'm wondering whether there was something I could have done or whether there is something useful I can do now. Geographic distance makes this challenging too.
Finally, I've been thinking about retaliation--not contemplating doing it, but thinking about what a weak, powerless gesture it is most of the time. When I got hurt, I was really scared. But people seldom read me as scared. I don't think he did. I've always had a response to violence that many people called hyperbolic--even childhood playground violence. It would not be an exaggeration to say that in the face of violence or aggression, I start to fear annihilation. So when he hurt me, I imagined that I could not get out of it happening again without taking some extreme action. So I played the one card I thought I had.
I grew up in the kind of neighborhood that he thought of as tough, dangerous. Mostly this resulted in derision from him. He used what he saw as my deficiencies to prop up himself and his background. (I know that the more I write, the more pathetic I sound. But it's true that i lived with this and tried to hold onto it with an idea that it might be the best, most stable thing I could ever have. It's true.). I knew that a lot of his barbs were fueled by fear, jealousy, and misunderstanding. I used that fear to my advantage, telling him that if he ever did anything physical to me again, I would have him killed. I told him that it would be easy, that I would not even have to pay someone to do it--just say what happened. His response was one of cartoonish fear. His eyes widened. He asked if I would really do something like that to him. Once again, he was unaware that any of this was connected to his behavior. He treated me as though I were having an unprovoked outburst. Looking back now, I'm not sure whether it would have been possible for me to carry out my threat.
At the time, I was thinking I could make it happen. But it's also important for me to point out that that I didn't think much within my power could stop this from happening again. I could never bring myself to believe that a person who hit me once would not do it indefinitely if left alive. I'm not sure what I believe now. But it didn't occur to me then that walking away would solve the problem. I figured that no matter what, a victimizer keeps a victim.
Some of this anxiety must come from seeing a production of The Bluest Eye on stage last night. I'm sure that's part of the reason why I did not sleep more than three hours. I don't know if I needed to see fights staged in slow motion and played for laughs. It makes my wonder how my fight, my threat would play on stage.
My left wrist has a birthmark, a lighter splotch that goes up toward the back of my hand. When I was a kid, it seemed like the most fascinating thing about my body, or an incredible imperfection, depending on my age. The right wrist looks mostly normal except for a spot near the fleshy part of my palm. I scar easily and have no memory of what I could have done to myself.
It took a while for me to notice that these wrists don't necessarily go with the rest of my body. Those realizations didn't come through my normal self-assessment. They came when I tried to buy jewelry or when others had something to say.
For a long time now, my left wrist has been damaged. The problem is not visible, but may have something to do with how delicate they are. The damage is courtesy of a relationship that was always abusive in a number of ways, and physically abusive on one occasion.
I don't remember the subject of the argument exactly. I know it was about someplace we would or would not go. This was a regular source of argument between us. As usual, I wanted to go out and wanted him to go with me. He didn't want to go. I was annoyed and disappointed and got up to leave without him. This was not the response he expected. He wanted me to stay.
I remember where we were--in the living room of a place I lived in at the time. My roommates were gone. It was weird. Af first there was a little irritation, but I sure as hell wasn't having a fight. So the next few moments seemed to come out of nowhere. I got up to leave, to go wherever it was that I had considered going before, movie, the grocery store, I don't recall. Then he grabbed me. I was stunned. That moment of violence had more passion than any other touch I remembered from him.
He put me back on the couch and held me down somehow, which I resisted. When I tried to get up, he grabbed my hand and forced my left wrist backwards. It hurt in a way that made me not struggle. I thought it would just hurt more. I remember being panicked but wanting to be quiet so my neighbors would hear. I was worried about what might happen if my roommates happened to come home. I wondered how far this would go.
After a bit of this, he got up and started moving across the room. I threw my slipper at him. He was genuinely outraged that I had hit him. I know I responded with something about what he had done to me. He insisted that he had not done anything significant really, that it hadn't mattered, hadn't hurt.
It's what I was used to. He said such things a lot, usually about what I wanted to do, my interests, or my feelings of being slighted. I know all the classic ways in which I was set up for this by my childhood, etc. But that's not the point of this entry. So I'll move on.
That wrist never healed. Most of the time, I don't feel pain there. But a few activities always aggravate it. Of course, if I find myself on my hands and knees, it can become an issue. One of the first times that memory came flooding back was during one of my first yoga classes in LA. I was with a friend who had convinced me to go to a gym to try this "new" thing. I was digging it until downward facing dog. It's a simple-looking posture that's hard to get right. For a split second, I could not figure out what was wrong with my left arm, why I could not support myself. Then I remembered that day and all the involvement that came after it. It was not a useful memory at the time, in part because it was still years before I could speak of the incident or the relationship honestly.
The injury also surfaces if I'm carrying something heavy with my wrist fully extended. Grocery bags are the primary culprit. Once again, the memory arises when I'm doing something basic for my own self care. I didn't cry then, but sometimes I do now. A number of things in my life have always been disordered.
Why does this memory arise now? One reason is that I have too much time to be in my own head. But more on that later. Another is that my right wrist is all messed up now. I'm sure it has something to do with where I put my computer in my office and the fact that it had been a while since I used a mouse. The degree to which it's messed up is impressive. I have these knots in my forearm tendons that can be felt really easily and at worst are visible. (But the wrist still looks delicate.). I've had it worked on by an acupuncturist; but my insurance doesn't cover that and I need more attention. When he "massaged" my arm, warm pain flooded into my wrist for days before I felt relief. Then the pain returned. I'm at a bit of a loss about what to do.
The double-sided pain means that some things I need to do, such as move books or get groceries, are hard sometimes and leave me in tears. These are not even the deliberate tears of grief or regret at the beginning. They're just automatic physical responses to the pain. Then they turn to the other kind if I let them go too long. At those points, I think about the fact that I could really use a little help. That fact and that first injury are closely connected for me.
Years later, apropos of nothing, the ex brought up the incident. This was after a troubled relationship that went on far too long, after I had only begun to learn about how I misplace loyalty, after a while of not speaking to him at all, and a rekindling of contact around superficial topics for who knows what reason. He was really surprised when I told him that the injury lingers, that it was probably a fracture. "I did that to you?" he asked. "I did something to you then that still hurts today?" I wanted to say that he had done a lot that still hurts, not in a way that's really about him, but in a way that's about my expectations and trust. But I don't think I said more than "yes." By the time we had that conversation, I wasn't at a point where the apology or the contrition meant anything to me. I was past the point of caring whether he suffered over it, or believing that was possible or really relevant.
I have a tendency to be really private in a way that's not entirely deliberate. It takes a conscious effort and often some prompting for me behave differently. And it was worse when I was younger. I didn't tell anyone about this incident, in part because I doubted anyone would believe me. We looked settled from the outside. And I thought no one would believe he was capable of such an act. I also figured that if people did believe me, they would blame me. The thing now is that I don't know whether that's true. I didn't give my friends a chance to be friends. Instead, I separated from them. Looking back now, I'm sure embarrassment was part of the reason.
This brings me back to another recent occurrence which raised the issue for me again. I heard from a friend about ongoing relationship violence that I'm beating myself up for not noticing. I do remember observing some things that made me realize that I would not want their relationship. But I never suspected violence. And apparently it has always been present. Now I'm wondering whether there was something I could have done or whether there is something useful I can do now. Geographic distance makes this challenging too.
Finally, I've been thinking about retaliation--not contemplating doing it, but thinking about what a weak, powerless gesture it is most of the time. When I got hurt, I was really scared. But people seldom read me as scared. I don't think he did. I've always had a response to violence that many people called hyperbolic--even childhood playground violence. It would not be an exaggeration to say that in the face of violence or aggression, I start to fear annihilation. So when he hurt me, I imagined that I could not get out of it happening again without taking some extreme action. So I played the one card I thought I had.
I grew up in the kind of neighborhood that he thought of as tough, dangerous. Mostly this resulted in derision from him. He used what he saw as my deficiencies to prop up himself and his background. (I know that the more I write, the more pathetic I sound. But it's true that i lived with this and tried to hold onto it with an idea that it might be the best, most stable thing I could ever have. It's true.). I knew that a lot of his barbs were fueled by fear, jealousy, and misunderstanding. I used that fear to my advantage, telling him that if he ever did anything physical to me again, I would have him killed. I told him that it would be easy, that I would not even have to pay someone to do it--just say what happened. His response was one of cartoonish fear. His eyes widened. He asked if I would really do something like that to him. Once again, he was unaware that any of this was connected to his behavior. He treated me as though I were having an unprovoked outburst. Looking back now, I'm not sure whether it would have been possible for me to carry out my threat.
At the time, I was thinking I could make it happen. But it's also important for me to point out that that I didn't think much within my power could stop this from happening again. I could never bring myself to believe that a person who hit me once would not do it indefinitely if left alive. I'm not sure what I believe now. But it didn't occur to me then that walking away would solve the problem. I figured that no matter what, a victimizer keeps a victim.
Some of this anxiety must come from seeing a production of The Bluest Eye on stage last night. I'm sure that's part of the reason why I did not sleep more than three hours. I don't know if I needed to see fights staged in slow motion and played for laughs. It makes my wonder how my fight, my threat would play on stage.