The Body Keeps the Score

There is a book called The Body Keeps the Score.

I have never read it.

So naturally, I have decided to write an essay about it.

Actually…no.

This essay is just about how my body keeps the score.

I have no clue if this correlates with the book whatsoever, so please do not judge me too harshly for stealing its title.

They have the same title.

They may not even live on the same planet.

I repeat—I HAVE NOT READ THE BOOK.

Anyway.

A few days ago, I found myself thinking:

Wow. I am kind of sad.

I wonder why.

When I am sad, I try to run through a few things.

Is there an obvious reason I'm sad?

Did I get good sleep?

Have I been outside lately?

When was the last time I drank water?

Am I just hungry?

Where am I in my cycle?

Because all of these things play a factor in my mood.

And luckily, a lot of them can be solved rather quickly.

Eat something.

Drink some water.

Go outside.

Take a nap.

Wait for the hormones to stop hormoning.

But sometimes, when I am sad or unusually tired and I can't figure out why, I look at a calendar.

In this case, I looked at the calendar and realized…

It's September.

Now, what is wrong with September, you may ask?

Nothing, really.

Not for the past 34 years anyway.

But 34 years ago, on September 24th, my father celebrated his 48th birthday.

And then he died.

I was 9.

My brother was 12.

My mom was 39.

And suddenly she was left to raise my brother and me without him.

I have written about that day in detail before.

That's not what this is about.

But that day, to date, is the most traumatic day of my life.

And apparently, my body keeps the score.

Every year.

Every September.

Before my mind remembers…

my body does.

It goes into self-protection mode.

It starts grieving before I even realize there is something to grieve.

Not dramatically.

Almost imperceptibly.

Less energy.

More walls.

Less motivation.

More sentimentality.

Less enjoying the moment.

More everyone will leave.

And every year, I have to learn to accept this version of myself.

Because I think somewhere inside of me is still that little girl bracing for the unknown.

And maybe she is asking for comfort from the adult who knows we survive it.

The adult who knows what happens next.

The adult who knows we make it to 41.

So maybe I don't need to fix her.

Maybe I need to honor her.

Let her grieve September.

Let her body calm down.

Let her relax.

I don't need to drink more coffee because I'm tired.

I don't need to push myself through hard workouts because I "should."

I probably don't need to make any sweeping decisions about relationships or life while I am somewhat wallowing.

I don't need to force myself into being happier, more productive, more social, more anything.

I just need to recognize what is happening.

Oh.

It's September.

And be gentle with the girl who remembers.

Because even 34 years later, my body still keeps the score.

It still taps me on the shoulder every September and says:

Hey.

Something important happened here.

Something life-changing.

Something terribly sad.

You were never quite the same afterward.

And that deserves to be honored.

But I realized something else this year.

So does my dad.

Because if my body remembers before my mind does every year…

thank God.

That man deserves to be remembered by me.

Maybe my body isn't only keeping score of what hurt me.

Maybe it is keeping score of what mattered.

Of who mattered.

Maybe some of this sadness isn't something I need to overcome at all.

Maybe it is love remembering what month it is.

We spend so much of our lives trying to correct ourselves.

Push through.

Get motivated.

Cheer up.

Move on.

Heal.

Be better.

And sometimes maybe the kindest thing we can do is notice.

Notice that something in us remembers.

Notice that there might be a reason we're a little more tired, a little more tender, a little less capable of carrying everything we normally carry.

And instead of demanding a different reaction from ourselves, honor the one that came.

So this September, I think I'll let my body keep the score.

I'll let the little girl be sad.

I'll let the grown woman take care of her.

And I'll let both of them remember him.