“Oh no.” I grimace. “I already hate this.” I think about her pouring the water into the balloons for me before my arrival and shudder with humiliation. I shuffle behind her out to the roof of the building. The sun is out, but there is a chill in the air.
She places the glass bowl on the ground and stands up to face me. Only familiar with sitting across from her, I am shocked to realize for the first time that I am taller than she is. I am aware of her physicality in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I wrap my coat a little tighter, avoiding her eyes by gazing at the surrounding buildings that seem to press up against us. She walks me through the exercise.
“I’ve done this before myself,” she offers charitably. “You have to make yourself … big!” She throws open her arms and spreads her legs. She widens her mouth into a large O. Her kindness makes me feel ridiculous but, more than anything, pathetic. The level of self-involvement, I think. Has it really come to this? I’m about to throw pink and green water balloons at a wall? Christ. I’m nearly thirty. I am surprised to find hot tears spurting from my eyes. I laugh, embarrassed, quickly wiping one away.
“Why are you crying?” she asks.
“This is just so silly,” I say, stifling a small sob.
“I don’t think you’re crying because this is silly.” She crouches down to the bowl and selects a balloon. I take it, noting the fragility of its skin in my fingers.
I read once that women are more likely than men to cry when they are angry. I know that women cry out of shame. We are afraid of our anger, embarrassed by the way that it transforms us. We cry to quell what we feel, even when it’s trying to tell us something, even when it has every right to exist.
I shiver, clutching at the balloon. I throw it against the wall, watching it pop with a gentle snap, and am aware of a vague sense of annoyance.
“I’m not sure this is doing much. Did the balloons have to be so colorful?” I remark. She laughs, and then hands me a small jar. “I don’t think it is made of glass, so it might not break. But maybe it’s better than the balloons.”
I take the jar and self-consciously throw it against the wall. My arm is like a piece of limp spaghetti. I try again. The jar bounces. I imagine someone looking out their window to see a skinny woman throwing an object at a brick wall. Pathetic, I repeat in my head.
I think about what I must look like to the neighbors and to my therapist. I know that embracing anger means relinquishing that control, that assessment, that distance from myself, but I am desperate for control. I would rather hurt myself—metaphorically stab myself—than let anyone else hold the knife. I struggle to come into my body and simply be. I do not trust my own body to take the reins. And now someone is asking me, urging me, to let my body release anger. I am doomed to fail.
“I’m just not strong enough,” I mutter. I tuck my hair behind my ear and stare at the ground, remembering the asphalt yard of my grade school.
“Sometimes it helps to think of someone you want to punish,” she tells me.
I hate that there is anyone I want to punish, but I exhale and close my eyes. I block out thoughts of how stupid I feel, how silly I must appear. Let go.
This time the jar flies out of my hand, as if charged with some kind of current. It smacks against the wall and smashes into little pieces. I look back at my therapist, shocked.
“The body knows,” she says, reaching for a broom.
She is right, of course. My body knows. Of course physical sensations, just like rage, have purpose. They are signals, indicators, meant to lead us to truths. But I don’t listen, for fear of what they might reveal.
* * *
It was a late August afternoon when S and Barbara decided we should go for a bike ride on the beach cruisers we’d purchased a few weeks before. They were both excited by the idea, but I was hesitant. I’ve never been athletic, preferring to walk leisurely around the track in school when the rest of my peers would run.
I toyed with suggesting we stay at the house to lie around and read, but I knew that I’d just sound lame. I was in my first trimester of pregnancy and all I wanted to do was sleep, but my OB had emphasized the importance of exercise. Besides, the bike rides I’d taken with them always ended up being enjoyable.
I’ve considered myself uncoordinated for as long as I can remember, even as a child. When my father drove me down the street to a paved parking lot to learn how to ride a bike, I’d managed to keep my balance but had never gained the confidence to master the skill. I couldn’t learn to trust my instincts enough to relax and find pleasure in the activity.