THE PAIN OF DESIRE.

                                                                                         a PRIMAL CREATION by ERICA GIBBERT

                                                                                         a PRIMAL CREATION by ERICA GIBBERT

If pain in your body was desire wanting to be free,        what would it say?

I’ve been wanting to write about my body for a long time.  

The pulsing heat of creative pressure that comes along with this desire has been building and churning in my ribcage.  It has triggered cinching pain in my neck,  and a corset-like pull across my mid back.  My jaw has weathered the strain of carrying the weight of hundred monkeys gripping my teeth to keep from falling into the black hole of the unknown.  

I’ve wanted to squirm or strip out of It, begged someone to “fix It” with a magic wand, and even started roundtable meetings with Saints and Angels to discuss strategies to work around It — bargaining for a different desire, or at the very least, more time to get comfortable with being naked in print. 

It, being my desire and all that starts to rumble within from it’s stirring.  It shows up as anxiety, fear, worry, doubt, blame, shame, a disbelief that life can be so sweet, and the mind-boggling notion of infinite joy and love.   It takes the shape of a bullfrog in my throat — bulky, damp, and croaking with every possible excuse.  

I don’t have the time, I haven’t earned a voice because I don’t have a PhD, people want footnotes not first-hand fairytales, the screams of fraudulent behavior because I don’t always practice what I believe in my heart and bones.  

Sometimes the bullfrog dresses like a Prince of perfection and gets hung up on doing it all just right, so I don’t do it all — perfect is fetching until seen through the gaze of exhaustion.  

The mounting pressure has had me spitting out feisty steam of anger and attitude that snatched compromising off the table and fast pitched it into the trash — I don’t want a substitute desire!  My desire doesn’t care about punctuation, being liked, or appropriateness, which sounds the internal alarms of terror and victory simultaneously.  

This morning, I woke up to a voice saying,  “Fuck It!” You’ve been living in me and with me your whole life.  Show some respect and love.”  

It certainly wasn’t the voice of reason, so clearly it was my body grabbing the mic to pump me up to confront the the Frog squatting on the lily pad of my of my larynx.  I could have easily missed it, as the voice had the tone of an unrelenting drill sergeant.  

My body has felt the vibrations of fear used to force me into action to uphold egoic beliefs.  My body needed to sneak in waves of truth, so like a ventriloquist it grabbed my mind as it’s puppet and threw its voice into the one I’ve been trained to respond to with urgency.  

I was catapulted out of bed by her insistent directive, frantically scrambling to clamp into my armour and get on with the charge to show some respect and love.  That’s when I got suspicious and softened.  

This call to arms had the taste of adrenaline but was missing the fight. I stopped for a moment in the feigned frenzy, and we laughed.  My body was inviting me to play, to show and tell.  

Today, I’m not fighting the Frog of Fear, I’m writing while he’s taking a nap and letting his snore serenade my desire out of my chest.  I awoke to the possibility that the pain that was sparking flames in my neck and shoulders, isn’t a problem that needs to be smothered.  What if it’s the sensation of a transition from being dormant to active?  

Like a volcano, perhaps I’ve simply lost my top and molten rock is beginning it’s crawl through my body.  

Destruction is inevitable, and creation is promised.

Dear Body

Thank you for waking me up to feel you.

Love, 

Erica