The Chode Atop the Threshold
therapy blues, naming the hurt, and a box of letters
today’s letter falls into your lap gently with the following messages:
an anecdote about abuse
affirmations to ground the body
a poem
Tuesday rolls it’s tongue into a clover
I suck the last smoke pluming from a medicinal glass beaker. I’m late, but so is my therapist. The honey Theraflu I’m suckling cannot shake these sniffles, but I swallow her golden nectar regardless. A flower petal bobs in the water. I push it away with my tongue. The keychain dangling a wooden chode hangs above my doorway, and I think about my mom.
In my upbringing, Filipinos love three things the most: parties, jokes, and games. Despite my mom’s often stony complexion, she is no exception. When she went home to Leyte a few years ago for her father’s celebration of life, she came home with the most unique souvenirs: keychain penises.
Some large. Some thin. Smaller. Others were irresponsibly thick. All boasting veins in the form of burnt wood. Some nights, I turn mine over in my hand and imagine the water and lightning used to brand it. Today, I just watch it. Hanging. Tip down and waiting. Nearly ticking, as time moves me toward my therapy appointment.
I’m feeling good
I just walked out of the shower
Quantum jumped into my new life
and step into my power like
Aye! Today’s gon be a good day!
My alarm chimes. Kay hasn’t started our call yet, so I pull another mouthful of honey water warm into my belly. I often spend minutes in limbo, locked in thought, but again, there are so few times when I’m not. Daydreams are things of nightmares when I’m given a minute or two. Luckily, the meeting starts.
ZOOM WAITING ROOM
by claudia jean
Tuesday rolls its tongue. Time mocks me as it walks across the clock’s rugged face; hands clasped I’m begging it to stop. How pathetic. I need a break from sowing, stitching up with tattered claws, staring at the chode atop the threshold. Healing is peeling back epidermal and bone. It’s echolocation: body searching, screaming for my soul. 9:15 peeps me crying again. Such a sad delicate girl. my voice is missionary: pinned down. my mind an eiffel tower: getting fucked at both ends. Baby blue filters bright into my head: You’ll be let in by someone soon soon soon Ache greets me at the bridge where magpies measure truths and dick size. God laughs as I join Zoom.
ZOOM WAITING ROOM, 2025.
written for a future chapbook. typed in frustration. anxiety finds ways to clutch me even when I’m finding the light. it’s hard to pretend like I’m no where near through this. sitting alone in the virtual lobby, I ground myself with objects in the room.
“What part of you feels frustrated?” Kay asks.
Every single one.
Every part and every voice is wailing. I word vomit for forty-five minutes, only spend three wondering if I’m too much. Then she leads me in somatic tapping to bring me back to myself.
Today’s affirmations included naming the hurt.
“I am sad in my stomach about _______.” <we are not strong enough to name the thing out loud here, oops!">
“I am numb about __________.”
“Even though it still hurts, I can get through this.”
So far, my favorite new coping mechanism from EDMR has been tapping sequences. Similar to my mandala bead breathing exercises, it forces me to acknowledge my body, heart, and mind. It encourages me to remember who I am in this present time.
I ended up telling her about my box.
There is a box beneath my bed full of letters. When a feeling is transposed to the page, it is tragic to simply throw it away, so… I don’t. A treasure trove of every letter, card, and note I’ve been able to preserve lives in the box under the bed.
Including a stack of letters from an abusive ex.
They sit at the top of the box because they’re the most recent ones that I’ve got, and leave it to me to have them draped in bright orange. Like a sign. Like a warning. Do not look inside.
Curiosity was always going to be the cat that kills me. I peeled back the orange, and let the misery settle in.
It didn’t take long for me to shove them back into the depths. Reaching otherwise for a letter from grandma instead. She writes that she misses me and adores all my poetry. She names them by title, then tells me great job. Crumpling into a ball, I sob into the sheets.
Aching for everything that has ever been part of me.
Therapy ends, but not without my therapist’s quick maw. She leaves me gently with a proposal for our next call:
Maybe next time, we can chat about why we keep letters from an abusive ex.
Thanks for being here, friends!
I teased it forever ago, but you finally got the chode poem ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )
When you choose to spend your time reading one of my posts, a bird poos on your least favorite person’s car. If you like my poetry, please consider buying my book. If you don’t like books, consider getting Pike a treat.
Until next time! ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ • *✰
Useful article, you write various valuable experiences.
That was quite the journey, and you are brave to share it. You are also a talented artist. I feel privileged to have been able to read this.