Doldrums

There's a series of California highways, freeways, driveways, lined in palm and succulent. They all carry ambiguously numerical names; 101, 225, 5, 154, and they fly like flecks of spit from the mouths of the aesthetically elect. These twinkling fuckers. Someone always seems to have a powder to sprinkle on food to suppress my appetite, some pointed factorial on which fruits have a high sugar content, a euphemism to describe what's wrong with the generously-applied curves of my body, and a meticulous record of my outfit repeats and offenses. And I drink it all in. I let my odometer teeter dangerously close to empty while I merge from one stretch of pavement to the next; 101, 225, 5, 154. I sit in reclining chairs and let a nimble blonde paint my hair the color of clotted blood. A color that, when rinsed from my hair, drains in lazy strains down the sink and leaves behind an inky black that extends to my roots. I subject my body to muscle-shuddering exercises that leave me nauseous and momentarily blinded. I see a dog shit on the sidewalk, staring at me the entire time. I learn that a smiling acquaintance has passed away. 

Just like an amnesiac trying to get my senses back

My right foot slips on an algae-wet rock in the mountains of Cold Creek and my equilibrium tilts; the world of my body ripping from it's axis and into an abrasive rock face. Bruises have already begun to pigment themselves across my legs, deepening like kelp forests on the ocean's surface. Lately it has felt like anyone who even slightly acknowledges me is a possible paramour, and my current interest is laughing at my clumsy attempt to fit into his outdoorsy world. I am struck by the absence of embarrassment as I rise, tepid, back onto my feet. What's another dismissal?

Sometimes I feel like Homer's Hector; dead and being dragged by the ankles through the sodden detritus of someone else's past. Covered in dust that sweetly conceals my identifying features, my body is a blank screen for you to project your expectations of a young female. Every one of these bleak-fucking interactions leaves me feeling even more empty than the one before it. In what seems to be a recurring trend, I will spend long stretches of time looking at myself in the mirror afterwards. Having crept through the inky darkness to my bedroom, I will make sure the rest of the house is awash with it's sleeping sighs. In the dreary fluorescence, I inspect my pores, my raw lips, my liquid irises, the crumbling dregs of my eyeliner that still clings to my lashes. I am the trodden version of my previous self. Although I still look like a human, I feel like a girl aggrieved. I've been pulling this late night routine since I was old enough to be unsupervised, and the years are starting to show themselves. 

I've been contemplating a string of loose remarks once made to me by my favorite yoga teacher. He talked about how our shape is always changing. Not just our bodies, but our essence. He said that we should always shift to accommodate the space our body wants to create; a point that he made very clear by placing his hands on my hips and shifting my bones into painfully new territory. Instead of focusing on the pain of the unfamiliar, he said we should relish in the deep stretch-- the benefit of the discovery. Focusing on what we hate about our bodies denies us the opportunity to appreciate what we like about our souls. 

I was reminded of those words today after standing my tired legs, blooming with bruises, on top of a rock and staring from my spot on the mountainside to the small town below, across the highway and into the vastness of the ocean. Every part of me is so tender, exposed, deepening my stretch and searching painfully for the payoff. Why am I in California? Why am I setting off on hikes with people I don't know, revealing my sense of humor far before I can be sure it's acceptable? I so deeply crave a night when understanding suddenly strikes me, shaking me from sleep the way my nightmares so often do.