My legs. They know. They No. They ache, whine, and protest for days after heavy exercise – biking, kickboxing, hours of garden. I awaken the beast with stimulation. Reaching into the container of stifled protest, the well hidden events of a traumatic past. Weighed down by old held trauma. Wanting to run away. To fight off unwanted advances. Secretly wishing my legs would have defied my abusers and be unmovable, thwarting someone’s plan. All that protest energy still taking up residence. A protest that wasn’t allowed. A fuck-you condensed by sad-mess. Yes, old grief, that hopeless bastard. Bringing me to my aching knees. Festering, swirling – wishing relief.
The pain is constant. I don’t know where to put my legs so they won’t ache, won’t wake me. Muscular pain that is tired of waiting for the green light to release. Tired of holding. Aching at 2,3,4 a.m. Restless toss and burn. Heavy burdened walking sticks. Demanding attention for what was ignored before. This body does not forget. Tissues pregnant with issues. A high-risk pregnancy that must be watched, monitored. Until the delivery of release.
The threat of physical harm a long-ago-reality. All of my unconscious, protective holding is no longer needed – but my legs never got the memo. A loving gesture of exercise to keep my body fit and healthy has some underlying “gifts”. This physical pain I feel delivers me to the doorway of my emotional pain. Pain rents space, usually safe, undisturbed – until I call it out. Then pain has a voice. When my legs speak, they sound desperate. With ex-hurt-sion they plead with me. Their quiet whispers they tell me they’re exhausted. To please do the work. We’re sad, broken and depressed, needing deep-rest.
My relationship with my body is tight. Tight as the terror still residing in my legs, hips and pelvis. I talk with her. Sending love to my tender, lovely, strung-out legs. They need love. I purposefully bring the darkness forward, into consciousness. Visualizing the eviction of fear, disgust, shame, etc.. calling in Spirit Animals or Angels or Spirit Guides. Sitting with strong emotions. Standing with the reality of it all outside the cage of existence I used to know.
As my legs begin to thaw from their frozen “normal”, it hurts. I’ve disturbed a whole latta dark. The darkness wants out and that’s always painful. Painful going in, painful coming out. The trapped is wrapped in an old worn out container. My container is falling apart. As it should. As I relax, letting my guard down physically, the expression of what WAS is free to flow. These muscles and bones have known no safe place. No downtime.
I have a choice. We all do. I can do nothing. And invite in fibro-your-algia…cause NO, it will never be MINE. Never. I can wallow in vic-dumb-hood or I can stand on my own two legs and fight for my best life. I choose to evict the darkness. The thick, strangled webs of dysfunctional energy. They ooze sadness. A sadness so great I am compelled to ask them what they need. To actually have a conversation with my legs. The held trauma, wishing to take away my mobility, my health, my drive and flexibility. No thank-you.
I don’t blame my legs for the pain. Instead, I treat them like old friends. Dry brushing them to direct the fluid and energy to my lymphnodes for proper drainage. I Reiki them. I give them baths with Epsom salts for detox and relaxation of the strained muscles. I wrap them in warmth and allow emotion to flow unabstructed. I cry for the return of painless.
In a miraculous body way, a brilliant way, it handled it. By shutting down. By tensing up in protection. By stuffing all the ugly into my tissues and muscles because it was too much for a little girl to handle. The body never forgets.
I knew from the moment I saw him, he’d be trouble. Those dimples, dangerous teeth and someone-left-the-gate-open eyes. 
I’ve had some very interesting, very deep, connections – I like to call them 
Why do we admire people who juggle multiple things – careers, kids, active social life, 2nd jobs, volunteering, etc. 
So, the Holidays, hmmmmm. I’m guessing that some of my readers may be very excited for Holidays. I am also knowing that there’s a whole other section of the general pop who are digging themselves a large hole, preparing to jump in to escape all things “family celebration”. I’m a proud member of the second, gasp less acknowledged group. Actually I’m a charter member, with 10 years of sanity under my belt 😂 (and all over my body, actually LOL).
There are so many people in your same situation. Speak your truth. Say it anyway. Don’t ever feel silly or too angry or like you’re gloating or complaining. 
People come into our lives. They may be forgettable. 
Apparently I haven’t figured out how to exist without offending fragile egos. Especially on social media. 
When you start to speak the truth
Do you give thanks everyday for your body? Your amazingly perfect physical-ness? You should! You should express your gratitude for your bones, joints, skin, liver, your feet, your eyesight, your pancreas, your nose, your brain, the hair on your toes, on your head, even parts that hurt, are sick or not exactly making you happy right now. Every organ, every inch of your body. Become aware, today. Become aware of how you choose to treat the miracle of YOU. The miracle of thinking, being, feeling, acting and reacting. Offer it love, give it exercise – whether or not it complains or balks, give it good food – try things you’ve read about and don’t forget the water, generous amounts of water. Say thank you for all the ways you function right now because the more you are aware of your body, the more you will avoid mistreating it.
Sometimes your gifts and talents are barely visible, just under the surface. Often concealed by pretty weighty assaults you’ve collected on your path. Attacks on your self-worth. Attacks on your personal power. Attacks on your right to simply live and BE. Absorbing comments from others… “It’ll never work”, “You can’t make a living doing THAT”, “Don’t brag, no-one likes a show off”, “Better stick to your day job”, “What do you think you’re special or something?”
A Fish Named Karen 
