treatswords

My pain.

I try to rename it, the chronic illness group I follow says it helps.

“Your brain associates pain as a negative word and your body reacts to it.” A woman named Susan writes on Facebook.

***

I share my pain with him, my safe place.

“What should we name it?” I ask, heating pad hugging my hips, his long fingers searching for a throw blanket.

“Hmm, what about tangerine?”

“I like it.” I say.

Tangerine introduces herself to me with a twinge, a jolt, a shot of electricity. I picture two small lighting bolts, leaving a path of blue light along my pelvic bone. The wirey zig-zag fraying at its tail like split ends.

“Excess acidity, that’s what could be causing this,” the doctor says. I dump my coffee habit down the drain, precious grounds clogging the sink, sticking together, making it harder for me to say goodbye.

Tangerine comes and goes as she pleases and right as I think my body has ridden her for good, I feel her familiar sticky skin, a cramp of citrus, an ache of her small rice sized seeds spreading. A web of pumpkin guts nestling into my bladder.

My body creates the perfect home for Tangerine. A glass of stress for her to squeeze into.

My gremlin that is anxiety takes from me the only defense I have. My beating immune system cupped in its greasy hands.

“Oh, this one I shall keep,” it grins leaving a puff of vinegar breathe behind it.

I feel betrayed by the skin that I am in.

“Why can’t I just feel normal?” I ask my ceiling, eyes closed, body bent in half. A deep cry surfacing, leaving gray drops on my pillow.

My boss sighs at my stacking doctor appointments, “Oh, but they aren’t finding anything…wrong?”

I hear her eyes roll.

I don’t blame her for not understanding, it’s not her responsibility to.

But oh, what would it feel like to not be alone in this body?

I imagine my petite frame folding into a white, tattooed question mark.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask it daily.

I pretend to have a soul. If I have a soul, that means my body is just a case, a coating I can one day slip out of. The inflamed tissue isn’t my burden, the creaking joints aren’t truly mine to keep. I’m simply borrowing. I can see the corner of a hanger, waiting for it to be slipped back on, collar tucked back into place, wrinkles steamed by a hot iron. Ready to be worn again.

***

Tangerine isn’t all bad.

She forces me to listen to my body, my palm pressed against my lower abdomen, a deep breath breezing through me, my cells growing goosebumps. A sigh of relief, my body tingles, it feels calm, and there it is, a second of relief.

It keeps my mind open, trying new treatments. Kava Kava Root, meditation, tumeric stirred into tea, leaving a spoon stained orange.

It asks me to find what’s settled into my nooks and crannies. The cob web that’s unseen, the layer of dust that’s beginning to look like moss.

I take my time dusting, cleaning out what I’ve left to fester.

I find a room with over grown evergreens, tangerines dressing them like ornaments, overly ripe, sagging branches.

I tell my friend about the orange forest.

“It sounds like you have a lot to work through, get writing.” He says.

So I write. I start putting Tangerine on paper.

I even paint her one day out of boredom. I use water colors, dipping my brush into a shade that looks like burnt cheese. Shes sliced open, her skin stripped, her crescent pieces holding each other together.

She’s vulnerable.

I write about her vulnerability until she becomes small, less present.

I toss her into the green compost bin and watch as blue mold begins to take over, attaching to her skin, sucking the blood from her like a leach.