For the past few years my goal has to become more embodied. My last year in Baltimore, I started to feel very alien in my body. I couldn’t stop crying. I was anxious all the time. After all my guests from my 28th birthday left, I turned to my ex-girlfriend and sobbed. She was obviously stunned. The party was great! My friends love me! How beautiful that I got older!
I had to make some changes. Embodiment seemed to be an obvious way to understand and move through my feelings. I don’t know why this was my focus; maybe because riding my bike was the only good thing I felt. I moved to Houston. I started a stretching practice. I cried every time. I was so tense after moving. I wanted so desperately to feel better but first I had to feel.
I got COVID soon after moving but before my TX insurance kicked in. I didn’t have any furniture so I sat on a camp chair and binged Barry. I couldn’t help but compare it to the first time I got COVID in Baltimore over Thanksgiving. Hinenu came together for a meal train to make sure me and my roommate were fed well. Our friends brought us Thanksgiving meals; my father brought Pedialyte.
I pushed away any moving regret by just going and going. I went to the bar, clubs, museums, “parks” (used loosely here bc wtf Houston). I made friends! As an adult! What a concept! I got the most perfect dog on the planet. A cry is much better when holding a small dog to your chest. I tried not to notice how similar it was to holding a crying loved one.
But embodiment is more than crying. It’s tussling with my meat suit. So I started swimming again. I started lifting for the first time. I tried to address my lingering lower back pain through chiropractic work, and traditional physical therapy only to realize that my pain was due to extreme pelvic floor tightness. My friends have heard about my “pelvic PT” a lot. It’s been absolutely gut-wrenching; likely life-saving.
My executive function was also shot. I have always struggled with organization and clutter but I’m finally sick of it. I couldn’t finish a book. I have read and reviewed 20+ every year since about 2020, until now. I chalked it up to another presidential election plus living under the wheels of Greg Abbott. Instead, my therapist kindly suggested I get tested for ADHD. I was hesitant until I listened to the Therapy for Black Girls episode about ADHD and the expert they brought on had a blog just called “Black Girl Lost Keys.” It me!
A few months into my new medication the grief has returned. How could my life be different if I’d known what I needed when I was sobbing on 27th street? In high school, I would get so anxious that I couldn’t get out of bed. I always struggled in school. I started drinking and smoking weed when I was 15 (happy sweet 16 to me + the Owings Mills McMansion that kept me wasted and stoned). My inattentive ADHD was very palpable. Black women are severely underdiagnosed.
My ableism rears its ugly head too. Why do I have to take medication when I could just pray or I could just deal with it or I could possibly have just been misdiagnosed! I read Scattered Minds by the GOAT Gabor Mate and wondered… “is this fucking [book] about [me].” Truthfully everything makes more sense now. It’s hard to make sense when you don’t have language.
I live in a new place that I have forced myself to enjoy. I’m doing it! I’m enjoying the museums! I’m enjoying all the artists that must stop here on tour! There is joy! I enjoy meeting new people when I remind myself that I am not an island! As a person with more than half of my natal chart placements in Scorpio, I can’t let people think that there is only joy.
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