My Body Remembers
by Jason Tougaw
I pause when I reach the porch. Stanley sees me. My current step-dad is prone on the couch, hairy in boxer shorts. The light from the TV blinks on his face and chest. His mouth is moving, like he’s talking to the screen. I open the door and walk in, looking straight ahead at my room. He stinks, of course, like musty sweat and alcohol. If I can walk past without provoking him, maybe we can skip what I know is about to happen.
“Hey kid, where ya been?” Walk.
“No hello for your old man. Would Mommy like that? Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” she mimicks my high kid’s voice. “Fuckin’ momma’s boy.”
“I’m here,” I mutter.
“What was that? Huh? Whatever. You missed the fuckin’ game.”
“I hate football.” He knows that. of course.
“I hate football,” He mimicks. “Fuckin’ wuss. Go play with your Barbies.” He’s up, hairy and staggering toward me, red and grinning. “Commeer. Commeeer. You scared? I just want to talk to you.” He picks me up. My body is stringy and uncoordinated. He shakes it. I start to cry.
“Whatsamatter, kid? I didn’t do shit. Toughen up. Learn how to fight. Fight me. Fuck.”
“I hate you,” I say. He drops me. I try to stop my heaves. I rub my face on the floor to dry the tears. I struggle to compose my face. I can’t stand that contorted crying face.
“Look, you goddamn sissy ass faggot. You want a fight? I got the belt. Look.” He’s grinning but yelling too. Fun and fury are all mixed up in Stanley. “Nobody ever teaches you a lesson. Your old man’s a fuckin’ loser. He’s not around to teach you anything. That’s your problem. I’ll teach you.” I feel his foot nudging me, like I’m a dead animal he wants to turn over. I freeze. If I remain still, it will eventually end. I know this from experience.
Stanley didn’t beat me up all the time. He mocked me constantly. He played a game that involved swinging me around in the air, against my will, while I cried for him to stop.
I don’t know how accurate the memories are. Time gelled them. Writing warped them. But my body remembers–something. I’ve had enough therapy to make emotional and intellectual peace with Stanley’s abuse. I even confronted him in an oblique way, at my Nanny’s funeral. There was slight satisfaction in that.
It wasn’t until I was about forty that I realized my body is almost always on constant alert. If somebody cutting my hair nudges my head, it’s an effort not to resist. If a masseur or doctor tries to move my limbs or torso, I have to make a conscious effort to move my body the way I think it’s supposed to go. I often get it wrong. I can tell this perplexes people. A couple of years ago, a man much larger than me confronted me in a physical way that swept my body right back into those rooms with Stanley. When I see this man, it’s like that frozen and contorted kid emerges from my cells and occupies my muscles and nerves. Bones too. The alert also means I’m pretty good at navigating traffic on a bike and at catching falling glasses before they break.
I decided to write this today because my body’s memory fascinates me but also because I’m a little tired of it. My best guess is that my body learned to freeze, like a threatened rabbit, and held the pose at the ready. Just in case. Lately I’ve been wondering if there’s some kind of physical practice that might loosen the fear out of my muscles.
I’m fine. I love my life. I’m not looking for condolences or sympathy. But if you have ideas about the relationship between childhood physical abuse and body memory, I’d love to hear about them.
Adapted from The One You Get: Portrait of a Family Organism (represented by Carrie Howland, Donadio & Olson).