"Two different voices constantly call to us. One comes from within, the other from without. The one from without is one’s daily duty. If the part of the mind that responded to duty corresponded exactly with the voice from within, then one would indeed be supremely happy." - Yukio Mishima, Sun & Steel Happiness. Desire. Hope. Longing. Fulfillment. Such states are commonplace for those with (C)PTSD gnawing underneath the skin percolating to the surface in a sweat of frustration, anger and/or rage. The silent scream and the resulting sadness. Unheard. Unseen. Invisible. One may utilize a variety of approaches found in the proverbial "toolkit" acquired from afflicted fellows, therapists, spiritualists, and/or health professionals. A multi-prong approach is most effective; however, I have found one practice extremely suitable in my recovery - Go Go Dancing. I have been dancing since I was a child; however, such "feminine" activity was not encouraged for I was crafted and molded as a soldier and martial artist at a young age. Being referred to as the next Bruce Lee and absorbing a barrage of violent films extinguished this fire leaving my innate desire to dance sequestered in a tomb of apprehension and fear. As a young child afflicted with hyperarousal, I easily became aroused by music. Music videos, Solid Gold and Dance Fever mesmerized my young eyes. Dancing seemed like the ultimate escape - a stage on which anything could happen. My favorite video of the time was "She's Fresh" by Kool & the Gang. The video featured a modern day black Cinderella in futuristic silver attire ascending a staircase complete with smoke and mirrors. I was enraptured. It felt like fantasy realized. Creation. Fun. A wonderland. I would soon attempt to recreate this feeling in my bedroom with the radio blaring. My body gyrating. Two songs in particular come to the forefront - "Cuts like a Knife" by Bryan Adams and "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimoro. "Cuts like a Knife" felt similar to John Cougar Mellencamp's "Hurts so Good" only more dangerous. It also spoke to my pain and trauma thus resulting in sexual arousal. I would dance slow with myself touching my skin mouthing the lyrics. Alternatively, "Tarzan Boy" was explosive and I was hooked on the drummachine beat, jungle calls and storytelling. My liking of the song was met with disdain just as my penchant for the Culture Club. Baltimoro, a "one hit wonder," was one of the first mainstream artists to succumb to HIV/AIDS. It wasn't until I was a young pre-teen that I finally broke through the fear of moving to music in public. I went to my first dance in eighth grade. Looming as a wallflower wearing a trenchcoat and lacquered gelled hair, I watched my fellow classmates dance to the songs of 1988 with glee. I absorbed the experience in amazement and wonder. Peers dancing expressing their true selves as adult chaperones eyed the revelers. The announcement came. The last song of the afternoon - "Lean on Me" by Club Nouveau. I danced. I felt embarrassed nevertheless grooving to the cover song solo breaking a sweat. It was a temporary moment of release from the mind maze. The brain came to a full stop and my body took over. As a teenager, I attended the local punk rock industrial goth club -the Twilight Zone - every week. I broke through the fear of attending the club by listening to a close friend who questioned my assertion that going to such a place was considered "taboo." The first night I attended I sulked in my leather jacket. The owner Ray gave me a complimentary t-shirt to lift my spirit. It worked. As the last song reverberated through the club, I nervously sauntered on the floor and started swaying to the beat of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love / Where Did Our Love Go?" I left with a smile on my face. The following week I had my first dance with my dear friend to Soft Cell's "Sex Dwarf." I gyrated as if I was convulsing even before the kick drum began to laughter. Soon my attire became outrageous. I was a peacock. The rave scene had landed in the Bay Area via the UK from the likes of many transplant DJs. I attended gay clubs - the Mix, J.R.s among others - soaking up the "four to the floor" beat as well as the sights - Go Go Dancers! These ripped men would dance on the stage stripping down to nothing but a towel their members playing a game of hide and seek. Later I would encounter outrageous Go Go-ers wearing lavish outfits at the End Up in San Francisco. Soon I mustered up the courage to dance on the stage at Universe just as I had at the Twilight Zone. The space. To be carved. To exist. To be acknowledge. Not a "safe space" rather a "collective space" for which the tribe celebrates one's existence. The dance continued throughout adulthood but so did alcoholism and drug abuse. Soon, I did not like what I saw on the floor as I often glanced at my reflection in mirrors. I was fat. Bloated. Acne faced. Balding. I felt ugly. And so began a long spiral of self-hate and loathing. More booze. More drugs. A cycle of suffering - Samsara. When I approached my late thirties, I knew it was time for a change. A multitude of ailments persuaded me to buy a single speed bike and within months I lost eighty pounds. For the first time in my life I had defined abdominal muscles. I loved my physique and wanted to show it off by dancing on a box. Recalling the box at the Cat Club in SF, I took it upon myself to dance after my bike couriering shifts. I felt beautiful. Seen. Reborn. A sight to behold. A peacock in full bloom. Go Go-ing was short-lived though since I had suffered a serious accident; however, it took just a couple years to rehab my body and get back on the box. This time was different. I wasn't in the exact same shape and I was preparing for the Seattle to Portland ride. I didn't let this stop me. Weekly my outfits changed as well as my body - morphing into a slender muscled physique. I amassed plenty of colorful clothes - compression pants, tank tops, outrageous tacky socks, hats, bondage rope, handcuffs and gloves. I had broke free of the goth-mode of wearing all black by celebrating and showcasing the colors which are found throughout life. However things had changed. SF was no longer the SF I was accustomed to. The inevitability of change. The new clientele did not reflect the old demographic. Folsom was no longer Queer. Normals. Straights. Boring. As a result, Go Go-ing became as extinct as the Do Do bird. Taking it upon myself, I decided to reinject that energy into what I perceived to be a dying culture. As a result, I have grown accustomed to pointed fingers that are just as bad a being pelted by tomatoes. Ultimately this leads to the question of openness. To be open to experience. Regardless whether it is positive or negative. Relinquishing control. For when one lets go of desire or hope as to how things should be - love manifests. I inhabit love on the box as a peacock. Moments of disdain and praise or indifference are inevitable. However, I am seen. As I ride home alone by bike, I process the night's events. The conversations. The admiration. One night, Heidi - a young Vietnamese international student with bleach blonde hair and tattoos - bummed a cigarette from me as I unlocked my bicycle from the rack. She admired my "don't give a fuck" attitude. She said, "fuck them" to the haters seeing my beauty. She thanked me for the conversation and embraced me. I felt love. I found what I was seeking - acknowledgement, a connection and praise. I left for home alone. Processing. Dancing is a moment of liberation for liberation is not set in stone. One is never truly liberated. There are only moments. Sometimes I am captured on film and the resulting photos shared online. I marvel at onlookers admiration as I inhabit the peacock space. The totality of being. Of being me. For the dancefloor is the space upon which I am truly happy.
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AuthorDarren Brown, PhD. ArchivesCategories |