Issue No. 5: Stressed Out!
Words - Tash Moore

I often find myself flicking my wrists like an imaginary spider woman, trying to expend webbed energy that doubles as the stress amasses along my tendons. Perhaps the sticky substance can shoot out and cling to the wall, or the doorknob, or even the bedpost. Anywhere other than the coat of tension that melds itself to my joints, or curdles in my knees. The tension that used to gather along the base of my neck so taut that I couldn't sleep on my back for a year. The muscle spasms were intolerable.

I now understand how nerve or emotional trauma makes its home in my Black femme body. I might notice the anxiety when I react so strongly to someone moving my backpack for me, or I don't find my leftover sandwich where I left it. Making room without telling me. My arms tense and the surprise announces itself in a brief spitfire between my eyes. The anger is perhaps irrational. They needed the space.

I needed the space first.