cmdreamer

“You are not the darkness you endured. You are the light that refused to surrender.” – John Green

There are days where I feel crushed by the weight of my own existence. I am Atlas, holding up my world, knowing that the only option is to suffer through it. Hoping that this pain isn’t as permanent as it feels. 

“Healed.” The word feels like an empty promise. Something doctors tell you to justify cutting you open and putting a foreign device in your body. “It’ll be better when you’re healed.” 

Except their timeline doesn’t look like mine. 24 hours after that procedure I did not jump right back into my life. It was the most isolating feeling to return home with a permanent piece of me missing. My body will never be whole again. I will never be whole. 

A month later I am still feeling pain. My body is rejecting the very thing put there to save my life and I can’t blame it. I want it gone too. I want my body to sew me up and protect me from the object invading me every day. I want my body to work the way it was supposed to all along. I want my body back. 

But most importantly, I want to not feel like this is all I am now. I want to cry and scream about how much I miss my body without feeling like I’m not grateful. I want to talk to people about how difficult it is to wake up every morning and know that my life is forever changed without wondering if they think I’m complaining too much. I want to explain how absurd it is that I talk about this event as though it’s just a minor blip that’s building character when it has affected every part of my life. I want to admit how terrified I am that if I say everything I’m feeling, I’ll be talking to an empty room.

I’ve written countless posts where I detail my visits to the ER, the indescribable pain, and the night terrors that wake me up every night. I’ve written them all in tears and hid them away. No one but me has read them. I am protecting myself from being put on display and giving others the opportunity to pick me apart and question the validity of my feelings. The craziest part is that no one could discount my feelings more than I do. 

These past 7 months have felt like years. I’ve been forced to grow up quicker than I wanted both mentally and physically. Before Jean-Ralphio, I joked that I was a 24 living in an 80 year old man’s body with prostate issues. It was never really a joke and it isn’t one now. I am 25 with a catheter. That sentence is heartbreaking. I am heartbroken. And I am trying my best to get to the other side. I am trying my best to rely on people. But it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. 

I don’t know how to ask for help. To let people care for me the way I’ve always cared for them. I don’t know how to care for myself that way. I don’t know how to live this new life. 

I’m just trying my best. And I guess I’ll start with telling my story as it is. Not as I wish it was.