Two Steps at a Time

I am counting again.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 

My shoulders are getting worse.

The pain in the right shoulder has moved down so that I can feel the spasms in my right side. Now the tips of my fingers are numb and the rest of my hand is quickly following suit.

I try rolling my shoulders and neck to relieve a bit of the pressure, like someone is pressing down on me with both hands, pushing me into the ground.

I am rewarded with a sharp jab, a hot flash of pain moving down my arm and further down my side. I can now feel the muscles on my left side tightening in sympathy of the right.

And still the beat of music, that tattoo of rythem, pulses under my skin. It sings in time to the beat of my heart, slow and steady and there.

But still I type, still I write, still I walk. I will not allow myself to crumble and fall.

That would be cowardice.

Today my legs are singing to me.

 I picture them like saws, being bent and hit to create music that is oddly pleasing to the ear. I can’t stand today; I’m at the water cooler and I can feel them vibrating to a music only they can hear.

I’m thankful that I’m wearing pants because I know my legs are shaking, moving, vibrating, jiggling. It’s like there’s an earth quake and it’s only beneath my feet, as if I’m on a plate under the earths surface that shifts when I walk on it.

Every time I take a step, I feel sharp pains in the soles of my feet as if my feet are protesting every step I take.

In a way, I guess they are.

I think my legs are made of elastics.

Last night I stood at the bathroom sink, brushing my teeth. My legs felt as if someone were pulling my muscles taunt, stretching them to their full length. I had to keep moving from one foot to the other, knowing that if I didn’t, my balance would give out.

I felt the tightness of them all the way up the back of my legs, could feel the front of my legs throbbing softly as I tried to fight an ever lasting battle with my body.

I had an image of someone plucking a string inside my leg, causing everything else to vibrate and hum. I wonder if the spasms are my bodily music, it’s own symphony that plays on whether I want it to or not.

In bed, I stretch out my legs, feeling my calves throb and harden, becoming the elephant legs that I dislike so much. I’m not able to find a comfortable position and the pain, soft and throbbing along my body like a lovers touch, sends me into sleep.

I feel like I am wearing someone elses feet. Today it has been a chore to walk, to take things one step at a time. I haven’t had a day like this in some time, where I have to remove myself from my body, almost as if I am floating alongside it.

My feet feel jelly like, filled with water. They are heavy and it’s all I can do to will them to move. Maybe body parts, like the brain, can be stubborn? I wonder if I prick the soles of my feet with a pin if water would pour out?

Walking has always been a chore for me, a daily exercise in frustration. I have to be careful how much weight I put on them, how much I let them carry me along. Sometimes, if I’m not careful, if I’m not paying attention when I walk, they will turn into face each other as if in greeting.

I know it’s a negative image to look at this twin inside me like an infection. It’s not a disease, nothing like that. More like a parasite that needs me, that requires that I live and breathe for its own survival. I roll my head in hopes that the muscles in my shoulders and neck will loosen and am rewarded with a flash of pain that flies up my neck.

I touch the skin there and it is hard and taunt; the muscle underneath responds to my touch by spasming again, by pressing against my skin.

Maybe I should look at this twin, this other me, like a lover that likes pain instead of a gentle touch? One that is in to domination, controlling my body and my movements so that I move to it’s will?

It’s certainly a better image than an infection.

Besides, infections go away. I was made this way.

Today I am not able to feel my fingers.

My shoulders have been spasming all day and I can feel the muscles forming themselves into something resembling a sailors knot or a slip knot that will come undone when it is ready.

My right hand feels numb as the spasms move themselves down my arm; maybe there wasn’t enough room for them in my shoulders; maybe the spasms are like an infection that moves inside of me, targeting a different place each day?

I move my fingers along the table in front of me, slowly as if I were caressing it. I can feel tingles and needles again, those hateful needles that haunt me.

I know my fingers are there because I can move them, I can see them. I move them in front of my face, marveling at the face that I can’t feel them. They are like ghost fingers, someone elses fingers and I wonder if I can make them do things that I normally wouldn’t.

I feel like my fingers have been dipped in fingerpaint, perhaps blue as it’s a nice colour, that is numbing and dulling the sensatinos I would normally be feeling.

I flex my hands and wonder who they belong to.