Letters from the South – my vagina has feelings too, you know.

Crying Vagina

Something’s wrong with me. Well, a lot of things, as it turns out. I’m blocked. My chi is fucked, my centres are a mess. Worst part yet: I’ve buried emotions in my vagina.

Let me tell you how I found this out, and then I’ll give you a little context and backstory.

I burst into tears in my chiropractor’s office when she adjusted my pelvis.

Did it hurt? Sure. But not to the merit of a torrential, unstoppable, unending flood of heaving sobs that lasted the remainder of my appointment. She took one look at me, cocked her head, and said: ‘Ohhhh, honey. You’ve been storing a lot of emotion in there.’ No shit.

My pelvic girdle, my chiropractor explains, is a bit messed. I have hip dysplasia. Also, my ribs are like a pile of pick-up-sticks because they’re delicate and difficult little pests, and my lower back is a logjam after years of hospitality work. But my pelvis, my precious pelvis… what the hell was it that warranted such an emotional response?

We all carry stress in different ways, different places in our bodies. Shoulder tension, crick of the neck – and here I am with a vagina-load of emotion. It does not end there, however, but continues to other orifices, since the pelvic cavity also contains the ovaries, uterus, colon, rectum and bladder. After my doctor’s office meltdown, I’ve realized that my chi is blocked, stunted, dark and muddled. There is no flow from my ‘in’ to the ‘out’ and so works are gummed up.

Context:

I’m a liberal Canadian and have somewhat recently moved to a small town in Mississippi. This means I now censor myself in public to avoid causing conflict, and while I generally live according to my principles, I now do not speak my mind except in private circles.

For the record, the opinions I hold, and words I hold back, are nothing radical to the average adult in any developed country. I’ve just moved the The South in the US of A where time and progress are about as quick as a turtle crossing the road on the most sweltering August day.  I thought that moving to the slower pace might offer an opportunity for growth in quietude and listening, reflection and acceptance…

Ha. Turns out I’m just messing with my inner and outer health.  I am in a volatile southern marriage, in an environmentally toxic environment, which when combined with small-town socio-politics, results in a theme: I keep my (normally big) mouth shut to avoid perceived negative consequences. I am not being true to myself and it is making me sick.

My shit is all twisted and convoluted, beyond the turns of my intestines. I am in such a state of stress all the time that whenever I go away from this place, I immediately poop three times in one day, and then regularly like a champ.

My breathing is labored. Is it because of corporate-industrialized farming and the poison they are spraying constantly above my head? (Not that I would criticize the practice openly in a small town where I am friendly with some career farmers… oh there we go with the self-censorship again… ugh, do you see what I mean yet?)

Or is it the lack of exercise I get in a place where everyone drives everywhere and therefore my lungs have donned a mumu and settled for early retirement? I do exercise, don’t get me wrong, but I suspect that people think I’m strange for riding my bike 3.5 miles into work (I barely break a dewy glow) down a flat, straight, country road.

But back to the chiropractor’s office.

My vagina, my dear sweet vagina. Et tu, Brute? Am I not being woman enough? I’m trying so hard to pass – definitely not as a southern debutante – but at least as a polite woman in civilized society (what is that, by the way?).

Maybe that’s just it. THAT IS NOT BEING WOMAN ENOUGH!!! My vagina has something to say, and hear it roar!

Yes! I do want public access to birth control for all, and education on the subject.

Yes! I have Googled how many states I would have to drive across should I need access to an abortion.

Yes. I would love to love and be loved; to be myself in this town that I love; to shit properly in true emotional health; to speak thy mind and love thy neighbor and be loved – not judged; and to allow full passage to and from my vagina without disdain and distrust.

And to my chiropractor I vow: To take care of my emotional wellbeing lest it all get caught up in the ball of chi-yarn sitting in the cradle of my pelvis.

xoxo,
m