of muscle, bone and viscera

G. Riebecke, 1929 from The Dog In Photography 1839 - Today

I quit my job in the desert. I quit with the intention to come home and stay. Two of my grandparents have cancer. But when it came time to drive home, I no longer wished to commit to staying anywhere. On the move is where I feel most myself.

Often, I have this sensation of life happening to me. Against me. There are no choices for me to make, because I have never had a choice. Grin and bear it. Hope for something else, but never expect it. I operate on the assumption that I am stuck. For a long time, nearly my entire childhood, that was true. The oppressive force of being at the mercy of chaotic adults did have me pinned to the floor. At 25, I am working to rewire that assumption. No longer am I a child. No longer does anyone have more say over my life than I do. I can choose whether I stay or go. So much time spent running, more time spent yearning for it, and I’m left not knowing what I truly want.

All of this to say, sometimes I forget I am a real person. There is muscle, bone, viscera that fills in my outline. My skin is real. People look at me and they see someone. Standing on the physical plane. This isn’t a game. There is tangibility to my life. Knocked from one experience to the next, I have not claimed myself as legitimate yet. But I am. There is validity to the fact that I am here. That is enough alone to stake claim to this life. To these desires I house. I have a responsibility to myself - and that realization is new.

Victimhood has served me. It gave me something to rail against. It fueled this desire to chase my freedom and to run away from those who originally stole it. But there comes a moment to let it go, to take responsibility for myself and my life. What makes coming home this time feel so different from all the others is that I am at a place in my life where my nervous system feels safe enough to investigate this identity of victimhood. To look at myself and ask where am I contributing to the situations I wish would change? How has my addiction to being on the move -to chasing freedom- caged me in?

There are people, places and situations at home that have historically filled my body with the sensation of needing to disappear, to escape. Seek refuge in a far off land where no one knows my name. Perhaps, at this point in my life, my power is not sourced from fleeing. Maybe it’s found in staking claim to my life, in living as a woman with legitimacy and validity, as a woman who has this responsibility of embodying her muscle, bone and viscera.