The Body Pathetic

Posted By Cassandra Disque on May 5, 2009

I remember when my body worked. I can feel those memories in me, beneath my skin and in my muscles, buried behind the current, never-ending pain. For some people, it’s their sense of smell, taste, sight, or hearing that are most acute, and therefore, most ingrained in memories. For me, because of my sensitivities, it’s touch — how my body felt. Whether it felt alive, felt like it was being crushed, or somewhere in between.

Surprisingly, my favorite body memories are not sexual, despite being able to easily relive even the most brief of encounters. No, my favorite body memories are not those of a sexual nature, but are memories of muscles being pushed to their limits in sheer physicality. Memories of a body unlimited in its range of motion, and moving without pain.

I remember what it was like before I was this disabled, when I could still dance. Feeling the bass in my head and my gut as my feet slapped the floor, my torso twisted and my arms swung. What it was like years ago when I was able to go rock climbing, when I buried my fingers into the holds and felt my skin abrased and my arms strained as I tried to pull myself vertically up. There are memories of horseback riding; of gripping the leather saddle between my thighs and the horse between my knees, pulling on the leather reins with sore wrists. My back and ass always hurting from never quite getting the canter correct.

I have fast memories of the cold wind burning my face and the snow freezing my body as I sledded down the hills in the winter. Short memories of being flipped off a raft that had been attached to a fast moving motorboat; the quick sting and the shattering sensation as though every bone had broken is now something I’m so used to feeling that this body memory is the least novel of all for me.

My favorite is swimming in the ocean, fighting against the tide. Every wave breaking against my body like it’s trying to break me down, but my body holds firm. I would duck under the waves or swim over them, which would allow the sensation of the rushing water to push its force upon me, then cause a small back draft behind me. I love the memory of the feeling of being pulled back under when a wave would go back out to sea, as the ground under me would rush out under my feet and I would lose my balance in the world. I love remembering sluicing through the waves and fighting the riptides, feeling nature pull me in the opposite way of safety. My skin would sting from the salinity, my feet would hurt from the pebbles; I’d often have brushed up against a jellyfish or two, but I’d still persist. The water slapping against my thighs as I made my way deeper in, then feeling the way the water seemed to part for each time the hand brought the arm down into a stroke — that’s the most peaceful feeling possible for me, yet it’s also a memory of action.

Memories of my body in action are almost all I have now.

I remember myself in crutches too many times to count. All the times with the cane, attempting not to lean on it even though I needed to. And this past year, my time in the wheelchair.

It’s amazing, how active I was when I was young: I was a complete tomboy, always at gymnastics or skating, running, swimming, biking, or playing football and softball. Then I got sick and had to modify my life. A little yoga and swimming are about all I can manage these days. I miss moving so much. Sometimes I just sit back, close my eyes and remember something my body used to do. I get so involved in the memory that I can feel each individual muscle aware of when it used to be needed. I remember being taut and trim, feeling able to almost fly. I bring those feelings back and relive it all vicariously…but I’d rather just be doing it again, now.

Of all the things I miss, I don’t miss my mind the most — I miss my body.

Categories: Best, gimp the girl
Tags:

About the author

Cassandra Disque

Extemporaneous flibbertigibbet with bone lumps growing out of my coccyx. I was born in 1981. I was another case of "too much, too young," or at least I wanted to be. Now I'm leaning toward "too little, too late," as my body conks out on me, and I find I haven't done hardly any of the things I wanted. This is supposed to happen to people twice my age, so you might find my perspective on life to be a little unusual -- as in, I find just about everything to be hysterically funny, because there's little use in worrying when it's all going to go kaput.

Comments

Leave a Reply

«     »

"The Drag of Gimp"

Since 1996, my life has been a long journey of visiting one doctor after another. I look more or less fine, but I'm not. My daily pill count is like playing the dozens with a hospice patient. One doctor will say I'm doomed, and send me to another for treatment, but the treating doctor will find nothing within his or her area of practice that can be treated.

My life is better than a comedy, better than a drama. Anyone who has done this knows what I mean when I say that you have to not only know the rules, but also play the part in order to be allowed in the game. Most people find what we go through in the medical merry-go-round to be unbelievable, which is why I call it "The Drag of Gimp."


About the author

Cassandra Disque

Extemporaneous flibbertigibbet with bone lumps growing out of my coccyx. I was born in 1981. I was another case of "too much, too young," or at least I wanted to be. Now I'm leaning toward "too little, too late," as my body conks out on me, and I find I haven't done hardly any of the things I wanted. This is supposed to happen to people twice my age, so you might find my perspective on life to be a little unusual -- as in, I find just about everything to be hysterically funny, because there's little use in worrying when it's all going to go kaput.