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We walked down a long corridor; there were slats or something on either side. To this day I cannot remember exactly what it was. But it was icy and hard with lots of people. They made me fill in some forms and sign.
"Stripping means down to your panty, right?" I asked this because everyone was watching me do it. I blushed, realising it needed to happen right there.
The shoes were easy, a lace here, a lace there and give it a good kick. Silk blouse, button, button, over the head. Jeans that didn't look well-worn. I knew their age. Button, zip, down, down-down. Stockings. Surely not my bra as well? Everybody's watching!
"You got it! We want EVERYTHING."
Panty. Slowly now. It's cold.
They chucked a cloth in my direction and called it a gown, asked for a urine sample and ordered me down the corridor. When you go in, you go in good. The doctor would like to see more than they do. I mean he had to make absolutely sure that you're not pregnant. Wouldn't that be a calamity in the system?
When the vital proceedings were over there was a "'uniform". It had blue stripes, just like the ones we used to buy for our maid every six months or so. They had somehow figured out what my size was and it fitted perfectly. And just in case I felt at a loss again, there was underwear as well. At least they didn't watch me put these on. That's probably too boring.
"Don't!"
"What?"
"Before you put any of those near yourself you will have a bath."
Yes sir, no sir, don't forget the pardon, sir. So I had a bath. Nothing fancy, no bubbles, Sunlight soap, that was for my hair too. But it was cold. After my comfort zone had been neatly restricted to the bath and clean clothes, they took me to where I had to live.
"Here."
Second door to the left, couldn't have missed it. The only one with the door open. Six metres by four, I later figured out, one barred window. Sorry about the view, slats are all we've got. A single bed, with a single sheet, single pillow and single blanket. Guess it would be a lonely ride.
The key turned.
We are all locked inside a body. When we try to get ourselves out of it psychologists try to talk us out of it, psychiatrists give us drugs to illude us into it, or priests pray you don't lose it. I've experienced this on several occasions when I've tried to see what I was made up of. The experiment consisted of a set of blades, high emotion and several brisk moves over the skin with the sharp pieces of metal. One usually tries near the pulses, as this seems the easiest access point. Interesting how the body spurts forth in anger, the pain comes later, but the red fluid that emits from here is emotion. The part of my body that perceives realises that it, too, has feelings. What I did find highly disappointing about these experimental sessions was how people view you with concern. As if you have a problem.
At this point suffice it to say that my problem is my body. Here I am, stuck behind blonde hair - yes, blonde, before you come up with another famous b-joke! I have astigmatic eyes and inherited my mother's buniotic toes. While we're on the topic of my mother, she calls my fingers "lang vingers". Should you know anything about Afrikaans, this means they're eager to steal (in my mother's eyes, that is). They tell me I have "earth-moving" hips, or is it child-rearing ones? Either way, the kind of hips that won't feature in the latest fashion magazine, with thighs to match (not to mention the flab gathered beneath the upper arms). The most hysterical thing about this body is that my husband adores it. I can't strip in front of him without him falling all over it - and the first thing that enters my mind is: Get out of here, quickly!
The other problem with this body is that it continually needs to be fed. The minute it doesn't get that stuff it becomes emotional, emitting tears from the eyes, or in extreme cases falling into depression and/or a migraine often followed by insomnia. Which brings me to the other point - if I don't exercise it, it hurts (yes, a body feels too) or grows out of the clothes made for it. This all costs me money. The aerobics sessions, the clothes which, if I go without them, it is - apparently - socially unacceptable. The only socially acceptable thing then, I believe, is not to have a body. Not having a body brings me face to face with yet another psychologist who tries to convince or remind me to maintain mine, and I cannot understand why.
So, having read a bit of Donald Winnicott, I've just lost my body by writing. You see, here we can communicate on my terms. As he puts it: "In the artist of all kinds I think one can detect an inherent dilemma, which belongs to the co-existence of two trends, the urgent need to communicate and the still more urgent need not to be found." Isn't that wonderful?
I include one of my (body) poems:
Touch me
Do not preserve
the pain you hear
a heart that's pumping
tender ear
My pencil pins
it dripping blood, a tear
pleads that you might
be near
Plunge your finger in my pulse
please bear
it's sticky - don't repulse
the life that brings you here
Pining
can't you hear?
to please what you
cannot repair.
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