Dear Mom,
Referring to Unaddressed Scars;
After my previous letter, I had to take a moment and sit in silence. I’ve always brushed past talking about that time in my life – whether or not it was because I had the opportunity being irrelevant. I was always deliberate whenever it came up in conversation. I could talk about your death, and my cancer. I could even describe all the things Rose had done to me in detail, and further chat about my four year stay in Puerto Rico. None of those topics are an issue for me. So it is only natural that I have a subject I avoid at all costs. Even now, with just the memories of my struggle, I shiver. Call it paranoia, but part of me feels like that if I linger in those memories for too long that I’ll ‘catch’ the darkness that consumed me back then. As if they were nothing more than a common cold…
It has been twenty years since and my stomach still drops if I stare at my scars for too long. They’re faded enough that I have to actively look for them if I’m feeling particularly angry at myself, but they’re still there in the back of my mind. Some just see random lines, but I see them as the marks for how close I was to taking my life. And before I snapped out of it, I was pretty damn close. I’m ashamed of what I did, and how I handled my depressive feelings. Acknowledging the damage I had done to myself was a pretty hard pill to swallow. My coping mechanism was to ignore it had all happened. Pretend that it was just a ‘hiccup’ and never talk about it. Not even a little bit. I don’t think I’ll ever get comfortable sharing that piece of me…
That’s why I like writing. There’s rarely a necessity to repeat yourself. You’re more descriptive, less emotional, and able to formulate a clear explanation. I guess you can say that, to me, writing takes some humanity out of the words. A reader could guess the tone, maybe even give the writer an accent they definitely don’t have in person, and the person is whoever the reader can imagine in the moment.
Meanwhile every word you type is, in your own head, inquisitive and playful. You’re sad, but it’s a controlled sad.
My sadness and anxiety are well managed these days. I have therapy every week where I talk to a lovely woman who lets me annoy her with my constant apologies and I see a psychologist every month. I struggle to sleep but the blame can fall on my chronic pain. I can’t take pain relief medication like the typical person with fibromyalgia and arthritis (among other things) because of my weak liver and immune system. I’m persistent with my doctors, but sometimes I do struggle to advocate for myself as my anxiety leads me down a deep, dark rabbit hole about the possibility of being labeled a hypochondriac. I am also very self aware of how disabled I have become. It wounds my ego to say that I do ask for help consistently, but I’m lucky to be surrounded by an incredible group of friends (my chosen family).
I felt the need to clarify all this – especially since my last letter to you was heavier. It isn’t every day that you’re able to look at the events you experienced so organized. Trauma has a funny way of making everything feel so ordinary.
Between the ages 19-30, I held a string of consistent jobs. My resume was only lengthy because most of the time I was hired for the season but not kept as a full time worker. That only lasted for about two to three years before I got my first long term position. I, honestly, applied critical thinking and guesswork to my day to day. I made friends, companions and associates over the years – all of them sweet and kind in their own quirky way. After a few weeks to a couple of months, I would open up to these random faces in my life and express my feelings towards the struggles I’ve endured. Sometimes I get comfortable enough to dive a bit deeper, get a little darker – all with permission, of course. I’m hardly ever comfortable divulging all of this online, let alone in person. Their comments always mirror the last person: “You’ve gone through alot!” “How are you so strong?” “I don’t know how you did it..” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing nervously in response. I always feel like the odd man out as I never really allowed myself to consider that what I’ve experienced was not normal. At least, not all these events at once. Most people, if they’re lucky, tend to live a long, healthy life with only one personal connection to a cancer fighter.
I, on the other hand, have lost seven people and I’m only thirty three.
In highschool, I had the unfortunate luck of being in an English class that was far below my level. It wasn’t something that could be fixed without taking me out of the district, and traveling to school was much easier in Caguas given how close the school was to my uncle’s house. So, I had to do what I could in that class to earn a grade while everyone else was learning their alphabet. I’ve always had a good rapport with my teachers, and that was no different even in Puerto Rico. I do appreciate her assistance throughout those three years. She kept me level headed enough, and inspired since she allowed me to submit short stories and essays as a way to earn my grade. The practice did good for my writing, and I was engaged in the class that otherwise wouldn’t be doing work that would challenge me.
I don’t remember what prompted me to write about us and our cancer. I honestly surprised myself for willingly accepting such a subject. That English teacher was the first to tell me how incredible our story is. I was filled with mixed feelings, yet I replayed her words over and over again for the rest of the semester. She had even submitted it into a writing contest and it had won 2nd place. I wish I had done a better job at saving the document because I’m genuinely curious about what I wrote way back then. It would have been nice to see if I had gotten any better.
I use her words, and the words of others who have heard my story, as a comforting hand whenever I get anxious about this blog. I’ve always been guilty of second guessing myself, and given how big this project is, I can’t help but feel as though I’m writing for the benefit of no one. Would it be okay if this was all just to benefit me? There’s this entity inside of me that is nothing but my guilt personified. Yet I have very little idea as to why I should feel so guilty? Anxiety is incredibly annoying, and stupid. Why must the brain over react?
It’s safe to say that I have gotten complacent in my silence. I like to believe that it’s safe for me to stumble as I find my voice, but that confidence is going to take some time to come.
For the time being, I just want you – and anyone else who reads this over your shoulder – to know that I’m fine. My good days are much greater than my bad ones, and they’re longer too. I can’t say that everything is perfect, but I am loved and I am safe. You can be sure of that.
The only new markings I look forward to having on my skin will be tattoos. I still need to design the one dedicated to you, and our family. Much like my anxiety over this blog, my art has slowed down a shameful amount because my stupid little brain keeps making me believe that I’m not good enough to create. That is a battle I aim to win as I have a few projects sitting on my ipad that I work on for an hour or two a night. The routine has been consistent enough that I hope to tackle that tattoo soon – especially since my roommate is looking forward to me designing one for him as well.
“Unaddressed Scars” should, and most likely will be the only time I’ll mention my self harm, and how bad it has gotten. Actually, that might be the darkest letter I’ll ever write. I’m still trying to fit my humor in these words, but it’s hard to crack a joke when the tone is so melodramatic. I know that I can be stoic and serious in person, but these letters are painting me out to be somewhat of a dramatic individual and I’m not exactly sure how to switch that around.
At least the following events aren’t as depressing, or at least, they aren’t to me.
Here’s hoping this had the intended effect of being a bit more lighthearted.
Sabey
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