A Writing About Not Writing

The acupuncture needles line my back. Shoulder, mid-back, lower back—one on each side of my midline, like my spine is a mirror creating an optical illusion. I’m a butterfly with needled wings.

“Fifteen minutes,” Melanie says calmly as she closes the door behind her.

First Five Minutes

Pinging. Tiny charges up and down my spine. The needles are electrical towers sending signals back and forth, to and fro. Frenetic. Disjointed. The images and thoughts that run through my mind are similarly chaotic. Maui cats. Work projects. Dinner plans. Family stress. No rhyme or reason — it’s a cacophony of thought. Noise. A jumbling. And I let it happen.

Next Five Minutes

The frenzy gives way to weightlessness. I’m floating. Up and up. Not really in my body, not really in my mind. Not connected to anything, really. The thoughts have calmed. There’s not much there, that I can perceive. It’s actually a bit uncomfortable, the disconnection. And I let it happen.

Final Five Minutes

A grounding. A peace. Body and mind one — in sync. One thought at a time, one image at a time, like looking at a stack of 3x5 photos.

And now the words come. They flow in. I’m writing about Maui — that cliff we visited on the last day of our trip, before we had to get to the airport. The cliff where I stretched out my arms and gave myself over to the sensation and suddenly, I was flying.

The words are beautiful and poignant. I want to capture them, bottle them up. Share them. I am a writer. And I let it happen.

I hear the door open; a gentle end to my reverie. “How are you feeling?” Melanie asks.

“Wonderful,” I say.

By the time I’m home, the words are gone. The wave that swept over me as I lay there on the table has receded, back into the ocean. Out of reach. I search the waters for the words and come up with nothing but silt and longing.

And this is how it goes each time. The words only come during an acupuncture or massage treatment — when my only goal is to calm my nervous system and connect with my body. To release.

Because three months ago, I broke. I broke open and shattered into a million shards. Ego, anxiety, pain, and trauma colluded in my downfall. I couldn’t function for a week. I lay in bed, sobbing to Joe, “I’m broken, I’m broken, I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he said, his words enveloped in compassion. And then he brought me toast.

And I let it happen.

I don’t know how I got out of that bed. I don’t know what exactly it was in me that had the capacity to keep going. Maybe it’s because I had Joe. And Ellen. And LaRita. And Tiffany. There for me. Sitting with me in the dark. Holding my shaking hand.

I started taking mental health medication. I increased my therapy sessions to once a week. I started acupuncture. I scheduled two massages a month.

Now, I have a Joe, an Ellen, a LaRita, a Tiffany, a Kate, a Linda, a Melanie, and a Susan. And my daddy. My daddy has been there from day one, though it took me almost 30 years to really see it. They are holding my pieces together while I apply the glue. The golden, sparkling glue.

They tell me the words will come back. They tell me that one day, I’ll be able to receive them, bottle them, share them. They tell me to trust. I’ve never been very good about that, but I’m trying.

When they come, whatever they are, I will let them happen.

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