It’s a little bit scary when you don’t have control over your own body. Even worse is the thought that maybe you dohave control over your body and you’re unconsciously making it fight you. Like some invisible game of risk with each of you stacking up little blue and black roman numerals trying to wipe the other out of existence, only this existence is your life.
It’s hard to imagine how incredibly difficult it is to explain this feeling to a doctor. You know, the person that’s supposed to have the answers. The one that knows everything and is going to save you torment, pain and perhaps even your life. For me, it’s incredibly difficult just to get them to hear anything I’m saying it seems. Between fumbling with laptops that the democrats made them use, and persistently explaining to you that what has happened to your body couldn’t reallybe what happened, the words coming out of your mouth just seem to get lost in the din of doctorhood… Some netherworld between syllables and comprehension that disappears like a non-existent dimension.
For me personally, every trip to the doctor is pre-empted with a half dozen personal hurdles: fear of surgery that maims or cripples me like my grandfather, fear of unknown cancers that lurk inside of you for six months silently killing you and tricking everyone into blaming something else like my mom’s did, demented shame over my physical condition, allegiance to alternative medicines and fear of the big bad pill pushers, and just a general unease that was gifted to me as a bonus result of my mother’s fear of the doctor that was born from my grandmother’s obsession with them. Enough hurdles to just keep you away. But then that day comes, when you feel so bad that you think, “Whoa, what was THAT? This is serious now, it’s time to get your head out of your ass and go”.
And so there you sit, without the comfort of your own clothes, in stupid gowns that flap open in the back, prodded by needles, scared, lonely, and desperately trying anything to get the scerios of worse case situations to stop running over and over in your head. For me just one thing kept coming back like a mantra: I want my mom. I just want my mom.
And once that happens, it’s like a bad party that you can’t leave. You know you should call your Dad for a ride home, but you really don’t want to hear his bullshit. There’s nothing left to do but to sob uncontrollably for that which you will never have again. It all seems to snowball until before long it’s unstoppable, and all you can think is that maybe you really are doing this to yourself, and if you’re not, well you’re certainly not doing yourself any favors anyway.
Moebius strip of emotional torment, endlessly accelerating on each pass too, feeding off of itself until you just tip toe over the brink of sanity for a few minutes and have to talk yourself down off the ledge. I realized at some point that I couldn’t sit down anymore, and that pacing around made me feel better.
So now, I take steps. I walk out in the cold, in the dark, in the rain, step by step until it goes away. Steps for all my hurt, steps for all my fear, steps for all my anger, steps for all my pain. Wearing away paths in the dirt that magically make it all go away. Step after step until I can think straight. Step by step until I remember that I have control over my body, and that I’m not crazy, and that I know what I’m feeling. If I know nothing else in the world, I know how my body feels right now, and no one else does. Step by step until I can give myself the authority to know. Step by step until I can be ok.