Scars, Shame, Disconnection & Texas

You don’t cry.  (You don’t). You go numb one cell at a time until the only thing left to feel is an absence. . . (Journal Entry, 8/09)

Last year at this time, I knew I was edging closer to death. The meningitis of November was morphing into something that was sneakier and more insidious. My body was hosting an unnamed enemy that was robbing it of integrity, muscle, energy, and even speech. My words slurred, and on occasion stopped, trapped somewhere in the cotton field between my brain and throat.

Months dragged on, and panic gave way to acceptance. I felt myself disconnecting from the world around me, and in-between moments of fear-drenched awareness (oh my god, what is happening to me?), it was almost heady.  There, on some other plane, I felt like I was floating. There were no fears, and no worries. Faces that were bright and loved — that once I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving — became distant; etched into a calm horizon that was beautiful but that no longer belonged to me.

My mind began to retreat to some primitive place that felt vaguely familiar but locked to the conscious part of me. I lost track of hours, then whole days. My body felt like an unwanted anchor, and I began to want nothing more than to cut the rope and set myself adrift.

On occasion, I would get angry.  Not because I was getting weaker and farther away from myself, but because I felt trapped in-between two worlds, neither of which I could navigate from the outside.  I wanted one or the other – life or death. It was becoming more and more difficult to bridge the space in-between.  Having to talk to people, having to function on even a minimal level, was exhausting. I either wanted either my whole life back, or I wanted the peace of having it gone.  It was in this state that I decided to go to the store one day and buy some groceries. My legs started to give out on me in the parking lot. My head felt like a weightless balloon tied to a lead post. Everything I saw seemed to be covered in some wavering wax paper.

I made it home and collapsed in the hall. When I woke up it was dark, and my dog was standing like a sentry at the top of the stairs.  And while I don’t often pray, I prayed that night, not for life or death, but for a reprieve.

A few days later, my doctor called with news that struck me as funny. After dozens of doctor’s visits and tests, as well as surgeries to remove benign tumors, it was determined that I had pernicious anemia – a vitamin B deficiency.  It was funny not only because it seemed so trivial and anti-climatic, but because the deficiency came about due to a healthier lifestyle I’d adopted. Vitamin B comes from meat and dairy products, and is also added to many processed foods – all of which I’d given up in the name of health a year or so earlier.  At some point, possibly years before I got ill, my liver stopped being able to competently metabolize vitamin B, but because there is so much of it in the typical American diet, I’d managed to absorb enough through my intestines to keep deficiency at bay.

It took two weeks of shots and sublingual tablets before I began to feel energy trickling back into my veins. Something else happened then, too. It wasn’t just the acknowledgment that life is indeed short, or that it could end at any time – but the realization that mine was not what I wanted it to be. Not just because of circumstance or experiences, but because of me.

One side straight gray lines, four squares per inch, a perfect box to hide in, a draftgirl’s dream. The other side lies face down. A cold surface cools the colors, and covers the mistakes. . . (Journal Entry, 8/09)

I started coming back into my body slowly, and realized that the mind-body disconnection I felt so strongly was not really new. Illness had only exacerbated subtle, long-term feelings of self-disdain and betrayal.  Even though I had done a lot of work to mentally recover from childhood assaults and young adult traumas, my body was still carrying the experiences tangibly – as in scars and a broken smile – and viscerally, as in a startle response that’s triggered every time someone approaches me from behind or a stranger waves their hand too close to my face.  There’s a lot of shame in these things, even if unwarranted. The rational part of me bucks against the push of low self-esteem, but intellectualizing doesn’t make up for what the mirror sees or the body still feels.

While I was in New Mexico, three months into this journey, (and a year past the start of my illness), I became awake in a way I never have before.  I wrote about it in this post, but what I didn’t mention was how determined I’ve become to fix the things that leave me feeling less than whole.

Like other women who’ve known similar experiences and scars, I’ve become used to hiding behind an unsmiling, anti-fashion, anti-style attitude that expresses itself through closed-mouth smiles, frumpy clothes, untamed hair, and little to no makeup.  I’ve gained an unflattering amount of weight, and let my muscles soften. I’ve also smoked away thousands of dollars that would be best spent on other, healthier ways to relieve stress.

I’m in Texas now, and the focus of this part of my journey will be about self-transformation. I am ready to shed what remains of the challenged past. I am ready to look in a mirror and say yes, that’s really me – and not the scars and shame I carry.

Tagged as: Road Trip Stories