They are back. Raw and bloody, as if freshly torn from me, they hide their eyes and scurry into the shadows. There are so many. Withered limbs, downcast faces, these amputated versions of myself didn’t go away. They went Under.
It’s dark and damp, the only light coming from cracks in the stone walls. There’s no door, no window. Looking around, I find it curious that the blood has not dried and turned brown after these many years. Even covered in filth, these other versions of me glisten with wounds that do not heal. I sink down in the middle of them. No tears, no touching. We are just—together.
I awake from my dream shivering, and hug my knees tightly to my chest, bracing myself as the memories rush in noisily—each one an accusation.
Five-year-old Debby pulls on her fifth pair of underpants. They make a soft and wishful, barrier between her and the hard world. Her family is going to see grandpa. Grandpa with the large hands, calloused from years of working on the railroad. Grandpa with the wide smile, framed by lines and folds. Grandpa, who likes to pull his granddaughters onto his ample lap. She skips breakfast, and hugs her doll tightly to her chest.
Cut her off and send her Under.
“Put your pants on.” He frowns down on her as he wipes the drool from his mouth with the back of one hand and rearranges his dick with the other. She doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly angry, she’s done what he told her to do. She doesn’t understand why Mama likes this man. “Don’t you be telling anybody about this. Do you understand me?” Debby nods. After he leaves, she goes out back and sits on the porch step. She knows she’s done something bad, something ugly. It begins to rain. Debby goes inside and brushes her teeth until her gums run red.
Cut her off and sent her Under.
She leaves by the dining room window, because the bells hanging on the doors let Mama track all comings and goings. Most all. It is dark and the night has become moist. Certain things are easier in the dark. Tex waits at the corner, eager to provide comfort to the wicked.
Cut her off and send her Under.
The blue blanket spread carefully under the tree brings out the blue in her eyes. It was a thoughtful choice, although in hindsight it was silly, since her eyes would be shut. Twenty-two little red pills, one for each year of her life. Each pill a subtraction. She is excited for the pain to end, excited that her inspired math will clean up some of the ugliness in the world. But she messes up that equation too.
Cut her off and send her Under.
Even awake from my dream, I feel entombed in the Under place, where blood never dries and humiliation coats everything in a treacherous slime, where I banished my sawed off selves to darkness and obscurity. And now, these young versions regard me with eyes swollen by betrayal. Bit by bit, I carved them off, my playful, vulnerable, edgy, wounded, distasteful, passionate selves—I tossed them down into shadow, often getting kudos for the act, a stroking for each amputation. I came to believe it was a normal thing, this sculpting of oneself into an image that pleased others. I learned to ignore my phantom selves, like phantom limbs, to deaden the pain, to pretend.
Feeling the sludge sucking at me, a heat begins to swell in my belly. Tears flow, but rather than dampening the heat, I grow hotter, until marinated in my own brine, my anger transforms into resolve. I know what I must do. I fear I may have crossed over into the crazy realm, but I can think of no other way to make amends.
I throw back the covers and with my feet on the cold floor, I close my eyes and scoop up the one closest to me. The tiny body struggles, and leans away from my warmth, but there is no will in its effort. I take my severed self into the shower and begin to wash the blood away. I know there is not a physical being in my arms, and yet, I hold something real, vulnerable—and entirely dependent on my embrace. Night after night, the blood returns, and night after night, I gently wash it away. Life begins to seep back in. There are wiggles and faint cries that catch in the throat, echoes of kicks and screams that never matured. The next night, and the next—I return to the shower, until only a bit of blood clings in the most delicate, intimate folds. I wash my small self once again, whispering, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve the things that happened to you. I’m sorry I left you alone in the dark.
“NO!” The voice bubbles up from the Under place and startles me. I drop the soap. “NO, no, No, nooooo”, voiced in every tone, from fierce, to doubtful, to pouting.
I search for ways to offer comfort, but it is difficult to find words that are both reassuring and true. All I can say is, it wasn’t your fault, you aren’t bad, I’m here with you. Still, the “NO!” resounds to everything. Finally, leaning against the shower wall, I wrap my arms around myself, and immersed in the soft warmth of the water, the voice quiets.
I move through the days as if every step must be forcibly extracted from the muck, eating, dressing, grocery shopping. I try to smile at the woman in produce but a “NO!” rises quickly from my solar plexus and explodes into the supermarket. People turn and stare. I refuse to apologize. I plod on thinking only of the night, overwhelmed by the thought of how many trips to the shower are in my future. This not-knowing scares me, and yet, I don’t want to know. It feels disrespectful somehow, like I want to get them numbered and scheduled, so I can determine when I’ll finally be done. So I can plan to be happy someday.
Darkness falls and I return to the bathroom. Methodically, I pull my t-shirt over my head and unhook my bra. Bending, I step out of my pants and underpants in one move, open the shower door, and test the water. I close my eyes, sighing like a weary sleep-deprived mother, and bring my young self close. How’s the water little one? Good? I whisper. Nodding, I step into the warm spray, face tilted upward toward the source, and begin washing away the traces of blood that have returned. There is a new calmness tonight, a friendliness. I talk quietly to myself, pausing when I sense a faint “No”. With my hands on my heart, I can finally say, I love you. I wait. I’ve become patient. At last, a faint but clear, “I know”. My body begins to lurch, the sobs making their way up and out, no longer a whimper but an expulsion—my in-breaths, gulps of new life.
I’ve taken this version into the shower thirty-three times, and there are no remaining traces of blood. Tenderly, I fold this small part back into myself. The work has only begun, but today, I can dance in the rain again.
Photo: Enoch Appiah Jr.
