My toes need to be redone. The wine-coloured polish is chipping away revealing striated nail beds. I hide them most of the time, underneath some colour, sometimes gel at the nail place by the Bearpit with the altar. Sometimes by a yard-job with the L’Oréal nail polish, I stole from Boots when I was at uni in Manchester. The nail polish is thicker than it was then, the colour of dried blood, it resists spreading on my toes. I have to pour nail polish remover into the tiny glass container. Break the polish apart so I can layer it on my nails. It does the job until a few hours later, it starts to chip. Maybe it’s because I am not patient enough to let it dry, but I never give myself enough time. In the upheaval of me getting ready to have sex, or wear sandals this is always last minute. I wonder if there is a connection, it could be something about exposure. When you are going to be exposed you have to take stock. Learn to see yourself from the eyes of the one who will be viewing you, witnessing your exposed flesh. Pretty up. Is that the same as armour? Does that nullify the penalties of exposure? Or is that something to do with courage? And what matters most is you being exposed.
The word conjures so much control. The control is not mine; it is external. I am being forced into a space I would sooner choose not to be in. I associate exposure with humiliation. I picture it as skin being ripped from my body. It summons the memories of the time a pot noodle fell on my lap eating lunch at school. After a few days at home, my grandmother sends me back to school. When I return home, my underwear is glued to my skin, all the blisters have popped, exposing tender, pink, raw epidermis. My grandmother cuts my panties, she teases the cotton away from the wound on my pubis. I wince and writhe in pain; every cut of cotton, every pull seared into my nine-year-old body, springing tears even now, at 30. I am back there being exposed, knowing I have to feel the pain, knowing that Mammie must do this or else.
I am distracted from the task at hand because I have suddenly become aware of the mist of sadness permeating my childhood. This memory exposes me to the pity I feel for her. Even when the soup fell on her lap, she didn’t tell anyone. The children having seen the whole thing went and told one of the teachers and they found me (her) in the toilets cupping water from the tap and pouring it on myself (herself). I try not to read too much into it. What comes up is silence. How long have I suffered in silence? Do I even know how to speak now that I have been silent for so long? Can I learn in the places I haven’t developed yet? This telling is also exposure, do I know the difference? Is this why my throat feels so blocked?
It is hard to observe without judgment, without assigning blame. What happens when I assign blame? Resource allocation, maybe. Who is it assigned to? Why do people say assigning blame is pointless when blame and responsibility seem so intricately connected? Where is the line? I can feel the shroud of sadness across my chest, spreading its heaviness down past my belly button over my feet.
Discernment. What are the burdens of awareness or is that something else I am feeling? Is it better to feel and not know or to feel and know? No one tells you but they come with their pros and cons. You make the decision as soon as you wish for one or the other. You can always change your mind. It can be a pain to switch directions once you’ve got some momentum. Maybe I am finally realising there is nothing inherently wrong with me. Brokenness is a perspective; how do I shift views? How do I change my vantage point, if not broken, then what?
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