The door is A Jar

05/27/2011

And my shoulder is a soap dish for trauma.

One jarring thrust and the it comes loose, before I can yell HEY! at the sudden mosh pit that has erupted in a small basement (can two people be a pit? they can if they’re slam-dancing!). I’ve got tears in my throat and I’m rushing for the door.

Hurry halting to the street and try to find some place where I can be invisible. Even in the nearest park there are windows and cars close enough to see, suddenly the city isn’t the safest place to be at all, at all. I curl myself into a ball and just murmur jesus fucking christ, as many times as I need to, sob twice and swallow, untangle my knees from my chest. Hyper-vigilance, mercy. I breathe as slowly as I can remember to and try to rest my pulse. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Why do I even leave the house? Go to shows? At least I wasn’t drinking this time, so my inflated response isn’t moreso.

On my return the first act is packing out and my friend’s band is packing in. I don’t know how but they’ve already found the time to procure me a ride home after their set should I so desire it. At first I refuse, but then the adrenaline wears off and I can feel the searing of inflamed scar tissue rusting up my shoulder, the desire to retreat from strangers straddling my chest. Yes, a ride to somewhere safe. Good.

Somewhere I have posted a list of coping strategies for putting myself back together after a hard trigger. At the top and most surefire is dancing, tho I often forget its magic spell mending body, mind and soul. Safety in the physical enumeration of self, beat passing from limb to limb. Their set brings forth the ecstatic for me. I thrust my head back, stomp in place, hips loosen to sway, body stiffens for tense moments and then releases again. It feels lucky to be able to find recovery so quickly and I’m tempted to push it by staying out my ride, but I think that I know better this time.

At home the garden grows and I bubble joy, for each day I survive and thrive, too.

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One Response to “The door is A Jar”

  1. […] those experiences can be intentionally or unintentionally unlocked later via exercise or movement. Like this, […]

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