Itch

Shelly’s skin itched something fierce. The insistent irritation invaded her thoughts and tore her mind from her task. Her skin had developed tiny needle pitched voices that pierced her brain directly, demanding attention. Shelly’s finger muscles began to rebel her brain’s command to remain at ease and began to twitch. She knew this was a clear sign her fingers and the voices were winning.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.

Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.

Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.

Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.

Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.

Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.

Accepting a Gift

When we lose something infinitely important to us we splinter apart. We burst apart, pieces of us fleeing in shards, flying to get away from us. In that split second, our perception of time is slowed and we watch the explosion drive parts of us from us, frozen in our shock and helplessness. There is no stopping this flight. Some of our pieces will return. Many will be damaged but will heal with time. These pieces will snuggle back into their home and our lives will appear normal. But the pieces that don’t return will leave a vacancy.

Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.

Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.

Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.

But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.

Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.

Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.

Mr. Odd Job Says

Originally this blog had two contributors - Mr. Odd Job - we had a kind of call and response. Mr. Odd Job has been busy - but sends this response to this one...

Mr. Odd Job's Bed

I hug the narrow strip of land, my back to the expanse of dark behind me. The waters roll and my breath catches. I am a stranger at the sea, and I have come to hate and fear her like a primitive. Though I am layered in cloth armor, the ocean reaches for me. I can never tell if it is intentional or not, and in truth it doesn't matter. In the daylight of a stolen afternoon, I can enjoy the expanse. My body uncurls and I feel gigantic and free. Blood swells in me as my dreams relish in the open calm of sheets, pillows and blankets. In this moment, I have no dominion and no dominion has me, the ocean loses its malevolence, becomes an extension of me and I float, swim and dive in the my own skin.

Ocean of Bed

At the start of this journey, I stayed close to shore. I laid myself gingerly on 'my side' of the bed and stared across the empty space next to me. On the other side of the body pillow I hugged like a life raft, a great empty ocean mocked me. No matter how often I quieted myself and held onto the life preserver, I would wake up confused and lost when I woke up in the uncharted waters. The night stand would be to further away and I had to strain to find the snooze button; the edge of the bed seemed so to great a distance for my short legs to reach to.

So slowly I didn't realize I was doing it, I learned to swim, float, and dive. During my sleep, my body let go and trusted itself. No longer did my toes search out to find that ankle and my back decided that it wasn't searching to lean against something warm anymore. My arms decided they were tired of the fruitless search for a chest to rest on and my head began to race eagerly to the pillow instead of a shoulder. While my brain rested, my body taught what beauty there was in the weightlessness of the ocean that had frightened me a short time before.

Now I stretch to each far corner – testing the limits of the bed. The pillows that used to be body floats are slowly becoming more of a hassle than a reassurance. My limbs have found the easy rhythm of this ocean and they rest quietly in a dreaming back float, no longer searching for anything. We've all found home.

Morning Companions

Jackson's eyes snapped open; she heard Routine rustling beside her, a clear indication she was about to be herded to the shower. Her detached body began the climb from the bed and the cool walk to the bathroom. The radio buzzed behind her with the same volume it did every morning. Routine bustled around her freeing her from the need to think about reaching for the hair dryer; he erased the need to really see the table she skirted on the way into the kitchen. Routine ensured the eggs were made, her gym bag was a packed, and her wallet and cell phone were in the proper purse. She was eternally grateful every day at lunch that he oversaw to her nutritional needs.

Routine efficiently ran the the mornings in their house. Jackson willingly allowed him control and disappeared into the background. Routine worked in silence and she smiled at his focus. Even so, Jackson thought she heard sounds echoing through her head. Routine familiar rhythm rocked her body and Jackson began to listen to the sounds else in a daze.
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"He makes eggs every morning. This morning they seem to be a bit fluffier. I wonder how that happened."
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"I think I'd like to find a gentle man. I wonder if that would work..."
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"It's Friday. That means it's movie night. Hope the movie's good."

These sounds didn't even come through as conversation to Jackson. She felt they were on the other side of the side of her cocoon. Perhaps this other person was talking to Routine to keep him company. She certainly wasn't much of a companion in the morning and didn't want to intrude on the conversation.

"I wonder which bus will show up first today. Maybe I should put on my headphones instead of read."
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"We don't normally stop here. Oh...it looks like the "Hey Lady" didn't get on today. Hope she's alright."
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"His skin looks like he uses lotion. Wonder if he does lotion his elbows. I think that might be odd for a man but who am I to say. His hair cut is perfect – every hair in place. Too cute and a bit scary."

Jackson was stunned. The sounds started to pound past her, one right after another – never giving her space to hear the silence. She wondered if it bother Routine but he seemed unphased, continuing his methodical plod into the new day. The conversation's pace increased until there seemed to be no space to draw a breath.

"She looks like she' really running hard when she runs. Her form makes her look like she's not in control of her own body."......."I love living in an active town."........"I mean, really. It's 7:30am – it's not so hot that you need to be only dressed in shorts. But you do look prettier when you run that way.".........."They're in full army gear with backpacks and running the other way. Wonder if that means anything. Wonder if the guys in the shorts would feel inferior if they had to run past the army guys."

Routine resolutely plodded with her, keeping her company as she walked across the campus and headed inside the building. Everyday, she felt him leaving her side about the time she stepped inside and pressed the button of the elevator. He usually just wanted to see her safely to work. As his presence slipped further and further away, the sounds she heard faded with him.


"Why is there something in my mailbox – who in the world leaves things in my mailbox between 5pm and 7am!"
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"Wonder will Jackie come up to say hello today."
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"Coffee sounds like an excellent idea........"
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Silence.

Locked in

I stare calmly out the window and watch the city slide by the bus window. My headphones in my hears but the device attached to them is silent. I sit and listen with a placid face.

Inside the cage of my chest, I feel it, scraching relentlessly to break through. Screeching in an unknown language – there are no words that conveys their meaning, yet I understand each piercing sounds. I control the flinch threatening to cross my face.

The creature beats itself against the walls, bouncing off of them in a fury that threatens to shake my entire being and I feel my muscles clench into stone in order to contain the violence. Frustration screams from the creature in the form of vibrations and furious shaking. I can tell it wants free.

Would be claws would rip my throat out and my breathing becomes shallow in a concentrated effort to give it as little room to move as possible. Maybe if it's constricted, it will stop thrashing and quiet down. But my reasoning fails. It becomes more animated in it's need to lash out and hit. I become more resolute to quiet it.

I long to give it control - to let its words become mine – to give it command over my fists. I long to throw the hissy fit that is raging inside of me. At times I believe that if I could just let it free, it would fly from my body and leave me alone, calm and once again at peace. But I know that this is an illusion, a dangerous plot the creature whispers inside my head at a volume that seems deafening.

I will have to wait it out. The reasoning tone will seep into my thoughts and over the course of the days, I will talk my creature into a state of calm. It will once again become part of my soul and we'll sleep together through the night, comforting each other.

Until then, the battle will be exhausting.

The bus stops and I gather my things to my shoulder. Stepping to the door, I drop the headphones from my ears and cheerfully thank the driver – the same as any other day. The walk to the apartment is as slow and deliberate as any other day. My creature is visible to no one but me. Somehow that comforts both of us.

Black Silk

Finally, it was time to indulge in the most decadent thing she’d ever worn.  She tried to give this to herself once a year.  Once a year she wore nothing but black silk.

Earlier in the day, she had stripped her sun dress over her head, dropped it to the sand next to her bag and froze in pleasure.  Her firm belief had become firmer.  Yes, the first time in the year that the sun and wind caresses every inch of skin you can possibly give to it is one of the sweetest moments of each year.  She had pulled the sensations of the warm sand up through her feet and concentrated on spreading that through her limbs.  Then she had set off for the water. 

She started stripping slowly in preparation for this moment of the year.  First came her forearms and a bit of ankle between her shoe and pant leg.  For a couple weeks, that’s all that she could expose to the cooler air.  But she was so eager for the touch of the sun she indulged the small spots that could handle the weather.

 Gradually the creeping months peeled back her sleeves, revealing the elbows and continuing the slide upwards to her shoulder.  Her pants became lighter and shorter.  She felt less weight pressing her down as the days went on and there was a feeling of giddiness descending around her.  She now had slightly tanned arms and her legs loved the heat of the sun.

As the sun grew hotter, she traded tennis shoes for toenail polish and flip flops.  Straight heavy skirts were cheerfully abandoned for light summer dresses that let air flow through her outfits.  Then the summer dresses came off leaving a bikini. 

Then she traded the bikini for black silk.  Tonight.

She sunk into the water and watched the sky turn darker and darker.  Eventually the entire world wore black and she felt in suspended in it.  She laughed at the moon and pulled herself into a ball.  Flipping, she drove herself down, further into the core.  She could feel blackness slide along her body and she turned, rising towards the surface.   The night air was cool on her face but she could still feel the blackness on her face.  The separation between the two surfaces was less defined here.  She was less defined here.

She lingered as long as she dared and then, drawing in a breath and smoothing her hair back from her forehead, she headed towards the beach.  She started the slow process of dressing again. 

First the bikini and then a sundress….