Clearing My Throat

            I had a muscle in my neck that cinched up like a girdle on a drag queen, so I went to my chiropractor, the Kook Doctor. 

            “My God, what did you do?” He asked.  “This muscle in your neck is never like this.”

            He was working on this muscle on the left side of my neck, and practically strangling me.  I asked him what he was doing, which is what I usually do – I’m not always convinced he knows what he’s doing, but he’s so easy on the eyes, I have patience for him.  Ease on the eyes, as you might imagine, is the first and foremost requirement in my healthcare professionals.

            “What muscle?”

            “The one that connects your chest to your neck.  Keeps your head on, and is attached to the lymph nodes in your neck.”

            Jesus, I thought.  Heart – throat – head. As I had been working on advocating for myself, finding my voice, and declaring my needs, my throat had been ultra sensitive, getting strep throat several times over the past year.  I couldn’t help but think it was related to the emotional work I was doing.  For the past few weeks, they all had been interconnected in a variety of ways.  The Kook Doctor massaged the muscle out, and for the rest of the night, snot seemed to drain from my sinuses down my throat.

            He asked me about what was going on, and I told him the Paralegal was in rehab.   He’s been tough on me around the Paralegal, thinks I should just be done with him. Thought that from the moment it started.  I told him about Body Electric, and some of the stuff that bubbled up around shame, powerlessness, selfishness and fear.  He told me that I should stop dwelling on moments with my father, and just let it go.

            “How do you let something go if you’re not consciously aware of it?”

            “If you’re not conscious of it, then it doesn’t matter.”

            “But your body remembers, and you react emotionally.”

            He’s enough of a Kook Doctor to know exactly what I was talking about.

            “You’re not considering getting more panchakarma again, are you?”

            “Considering it.”

            “No! Don’t! I’ve never seen you so depressed and out of it as what you went through after panchakarma.”

            “I had to process some stuff.”

            “Listen, before you go for more panchakarma, you need to get a second opinion.  Call the psychic.”

            For a moment, I wondered what sort of alternate reality I live in that my chiropractor is recommending a second opinion from a psychic.

            I could see in his face agitation and concern as he rattled on all the reasons he felt I should not get panchakarma.

            “Listen,” I interrupted.  “I think you need a hug.”

            I threw my arms around him. He shut up and we just stood there for a moment, holding each other.  The reality was I needed a hug, and not his judgment.

Falling in Love for a Second

            “Gone for now.”

            That was how the Paralegal left for rehab.  I had no idea.  Yoga Girl had no idea.  We had been out drinking plenty of times to know that he didn’t drink like an alcoholic.  Or at least he didn’t drink like the Lawyer.  We could have a bottle of wine for dinner, and then be done.  His work schedule and his fitness routine just didn’t lend themselves to a typical sort of substance abuse.  Regardless, I had no idea, no information, and I was going to have to find a place of peace on my own, and trust that if the Paralegal wanted me to know the details he would tell me.

            I felt in my heart that he loved me and his words were authentic, but what little comfort that provided did not make up for the pain in knowing that he would be gone, the uncertainty of the future, the sorrow for the incredible hurdles he would have to overcome, the anger that I was completely powerless to whatever life might toss the Paralegal’s way or mine, and that, ultimately, whatever his selfish addiction, I would be the one to lose out on his love. Do I have patience? Do I let him go? I didn’t know.  But I knew if I just kept breathing through my fears, the answers would come.

            That was the energy I took the next morning into a workshop I had signed up for.   Sitting on the bus, I meditated on the idea that the answers would come with time.  But then, why did I have to know the answers? The Paralegal was in rehab, he was getting help he needed, and I should be joyful for him.  Why do I have to write the end of the story? Why can’t I just wait and see what happens next?  And if I give the Paralegal the space he needs to do his work while focusing on the work I need to do, then just maybe when I know I’m ready for the next step, the Paralegal will be too.  And if not, then maybe another, more fabulous man would come into my life.

            And just maybe I would meet him at my workshop.

            I had signed up for the workshop months before, not really sure what I was getting into.  Since ending my relationship with my former partner, I just had a feeling that I needed to learn more about emotional intimacy, becoming more comfortable with it.  I could talk to a therapist every week, but that just seemed expensive and slow.  I was looking to fast-track my growth, so the idea of some sort of intensive workshop was appealing. I searched the Internet, and didn’t come up with a whole lot.

             I found weekends in Berlin, but the details were lost in translation.  The weeklong retreats in Costa Rica or Hawaii sounded exciting, but I wasn’t prepared to drop the cash needed.  But one workshop, a weekend, looked like it was promising: Celebrating the Body Erotic, offered by the Body Electric School.

             Only, the details were a bit vague, not getting much more specific than helping people to get more comfortable with their bodies, or looking to connect with people on a deeper level.  So I emailed the coordinator asking for more information.

            He suggest I look at the Web site, indicating the video described in great detail what the weekend dealt with.

            Still, I had no idea, specifically, what the weekend was about.

            So I emailed a follow-up question asking if the workshop delved into issues surrounding emotional intimacy.  He indicated that it didn’t deal with intimacy directly, but by exploring some of the hurdles to erotic energy, it gets at issues of emotional intimacy.

            Good enough. I signed up and mailed a check.

            Over the months that would follow between registration and this moment on the bus, thinking through the energy I was carrying into the weekend, it became apparent to me that the real challenge was not emotional intimacy with others, rather a true and authentic emotional intimacy with myself.

            It weighed on my already heavy heart as I thought about all the questions with unknown answers, and why I must know the answers. Why can’t I just throw myself into the flow of life and see what happens next, with full comfort that everything would be okay?

            I hopped off the bus and walked to the warehouse where the workshop was being hosted.

            I stood on the street corner, about fifteen minutes early, waiting for the door to open for the Saturday morning session.  A cab pulled up. The door swung open, and out stepped a man.

            The Principal.