My Body(52)

“Why are you crying?” she asks.

“This is just so silly,” I say, stifling a small sob.

“I don’t think you’re crying because this is silly.” She crouches down to the bowl and selects a balloon. I take it, noting the fragility of its skin in my fingers.

I read once that women are more likely than men to cry when they are angry. I know that women cry out of shame. We are afraid of our anger, embarrassed by the way that it transforms us. We cry to quell what we feel, even when it’s trying to tell us something, even when it has every right to exist.

I shiver, clutching at the balloon. I throw it against the wall, watching it pop with a gentle snap, and am aware of a vague sense of annoyance.

“I’m not sure this is doing much. Did the balloons have to be so colorful?” I remark. She laughs, and then hands me a small jar. “I don’t think it is made of glass, so it might not break. But maybe it’s better than the balloons.”

I take the jar and self-consciously throw it against the wall. My arm is like a piece of limp spaghetti. I try again. The jar bounces. I imagine someone looking out their window to see a skinny woman throwing an object at a brick wall. Pathetic, I repeat in my head.

I think about what I must look like to the neighbors and to my therapist. I know that embracing anger means relinquishing that control, that assessment, that distance from myself, but I am desperate for control. I would rather hurt myself—metaphorically stab myself—than let anyone else hold the knife. I struggle to come into my body and simply be. I do not trust my own body to take the reins. And now someone is asking me, urging me, to let my body release anger. I am doomed to fail.

“I’m just not strong enough,” I mutter. I tuck my hair behind my ear and stare at the ground, remembering the asphalt yard of my grade school.

“Sometimes it helps to think of someone you want to punish,” she tells me.

I hate that there is anyone I want to punish, but I exhale and close my eyes. I block out thoughts of how stupid I feel, how silly I must appear. Let go.

This time the jar flies out of my hand, as if charged with some kind of current. It smacks against the wall and smashes into little pieces. I look back at my therapist, shocked.

“The body knows,” she says, reaching for a broom.

She is right, of course. My body knows. Of course physical sensations, just like rage, have purpose. They are signals, indicators, meant to lead us to truths. But I don’t listen, for fear of what they might reveal.



* * *



It was a late August afternoon when S and Barbara decided we should go for a bike ride on the beach cruisers we’d purchased a few weeks before. They were both excited by the idea, but I was hesitant. I’ve never been athletic, preferring to walk leisurely around the track in school when the rest of my peers would run.

I toyed with suggesting we stay at the house to lie around and read, but I knew that I’d just sound lame. I was in my first trimester of pregnancy and all I wanted to do was sleep, but my OB had emphasized the importance of exercise. Besides, the bike rides I’d taken with them always ended up being enjoyable.

I’ve considered myself uncoordinated for as long as I can remember, even as a child. When my father drove me down the street to a paved parking lot to learn how to ride a bike, I’d managed to keep my balance but had never gained the confidence to master the skill. I couldn’t learn to trust my instincts enough to relax and find pleasure in the activity.

The hot air filling our lungs didn’t make physical exertion sound any more appealing, but as we rode down the street a surprising breeze broke the humidity.

Barbara led us along the side of the road, her hair streaming behind her. She and S were well-matched travel companions, both always ready to dive into the ocean or go for a late-night swim. I watched how they relaxed without envy: I loved them both and yearned to be more like them, following their example and welcoming their influence. Pedaling along, I dropped my shoulders and took a deep breath, glancing at my hips and thinking of the fetus curled up inside me. That morning I’d read that it was now about the size of a fig. I thought of its heartbeat, wondering if it was aligned with mine.

Up ahead, I saw that Barbara and S had made a left turn into a field. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me, her teeth crooked and charming. “Shortcut!” she hollered. I nodded as I steered off the road, my bike bumping on the new, uneven terrain.

The field seemed vast. As I pushed on, I felt my bike lose speed in the thick grass. The clouds that had offered coverage for most of our ride parted, the breeze stilled, and I broke into a sweat beneath the hot sun. It beat against my forehead.

I could tell S and Barbara were starting to struggle as well: their postures changed, and they appeared to push their pedals with more focused effort than before. A light-headedness overwhelmed me as my chest tightened. The horizon was dramatic: all blue sky and tall green grass. I worried for a second about the baby—how is his heart rate doing now that I am so out of breath?

S turned toward me, and I couldn’t help but think of how gross I must’ve looked—my face has a tendency to get splotches of red whenever I do anything strenuous. My swollen breasts felt sore beneath my oversized T-shirt, and I was bloated and dirty. I fought my instinct to stop, feeling a new determination rise up in me. I am with the people dearest to me on a bike ride on a beautiful day, I thought. Don’t you dare wuss out.