Tonight's Poet Corner: Screw You, Stimuli

Screw You, Stimuli
by Belinda Roddie

When I was juvenile and heard
a song that gave me goosebumps
for the first time, I wasn't aware
of how my soul reacted at first.
The music connected itself to my
shoulders like a raw harness, then
shot my arms up into the air like

whipping streamers, and it was only
when my sister asked, "Why are you
doing 'spirit fingers' right now?" that
I realized that I had a current in me
that wasn't willing to be switched off,
or unplugged, or powered down.

Stimming doesn't just belong
to one group of people: It's for
those on the spectrum, but also
for those with anxiety disorders:
Tourette's kneejerk response,
OCD's clamoring symphony,
ADHD's hit radio show where

all the sound effects are on point.
For me, it's losing control of my
hands - when I'm excited, when
I'm scared, when a tune is just super
stimulating to my poor skull. The biceps
tense, sorry digits creeping to the sides
of my head, and suddenly, I'm a goddamn

crab plotting world domination on
an isolated shore with no one to
witness my seizure of ultimate power.
It's like I want my own hands to make
contact with my forehead - press the skin
flat, reduce the creases, like desperately
smoothing out paper that's been folded

into an airplane, then a crane, then
a boat to hold chopsticks in a Japanese
restaurant, and then back to good old
crumpled fuckery. The words become
lost when I can't focus on the keyboard
anymore. It's funny, actually - how I try
to reach for the horizon but can't touch

the sunset outside with my fingertips.
My cuticles bleed constantly because
I can't help chewing them into oblivion.
My appetite is sustained by self-mutilation,
but that's never been enough, has it? When
I was seven years old, I spat wads of my
own salt and tears into my palms as if

creating a rough draft hand sanitizer.
Clearly, I was Jesus absolving himself
with his own spit. Maybe I was ahead
of the curve, given some of the health
movements out there now. I also jammed
my pinkie into my nose, produced the sinners
scrambling for shelter beneath my soggy flesh.
I bit my nails into nothingness; some things

haven't changed. The stimming hasn't
altered, either - I flail like a clumsy
crustacean, clench and unclench my hands
like soft castanets, then leave dents
in my temples with my knuckles. I do this
to warn myself of the consequences of letting
my muscles dance without planned choreography.

I admit that I can't stand how improvised
my movements can be, how I can't seem
to control where my body takes me
on a brand new day. I am no longer a kid,
but how interesting it is that my adulthood
cradles my habits and idiosyncrasies like
vulnerable children against its busty chest.
The twitches are sensitive to such beautiful,

human contact. The moment I remembered
I wasn't normal, I swore to defend myself
against the urges that I believed made me
beyond beastly. I wasn't accustomed to being
anything but stable, or steady. Now I know
that these reflexes won't relax any time soon: No.
The impulses of my art are only just getting started.