Deathwish 014: Julia
“This is chronic pain. This is the fever that never breaks”
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Whiplash is a secret pain. After the collision, I wasn't buried seven feet underground, but I did step down from my seven-inch heels. There's no glamor in that, now is there?
Me, but me, legless. Yes, I had my feet, but I couldn’t dance in them. I had no hips if I couldn’t move in them. Looking at me, I was whole; not in pieces. I was a whole girl, aging into my thirties: the year that strippers die.
My stance is limited; my neck turns, only wanly. My shoulders stoop forward, I have the posture of pain. My body feels lifeless without the bloodrush onstage.
I don't regret the collision. I don't regret his wrong turn. I just want to move, like I did once before. I just want to own the power of my body.
I regret not dancing now, in spite of the pain. Through all the pain. Through it and into it, the fear in my tendons. The sharp sway at my side. My back that won’t bend. My skin like worn leather. My jagged bare feet. The man in my heel pulls me down, like I’m ready for burial with each step. Closer to my grave, but I keep moving...
Every day, I hurt more and more. Inflamed jerkmovements collapse me to the ground. Every movement sears an echo; my body respirates ache. I'm fallen, a fading Christmas tree. All decorated, once sparkling, now discarded, and dull. This is chronic pain. This is the fever that never breaks. This is the regret of the body. This is what the noise is about: and the red and the blue sirens’ deathsong. Accidents hurt and accidents happen. I can't dance forever, I won't dance forever, I can't live forever.
My last performance will come. One day I won’t move when they call out my name. I won’t hear the song playing, and I won’t be there to witness my breath’s last dance, as I fade in the reddened light of the darkening stage.
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Julia was born in Cincinnati, OH, and lives in Portland, OR.