Recovery – if I think of the word it is confusing. That’s if I’m really analyzing it in great detail. I refuse to be seen as a sick girl – no one would think it if they saw me in person. But underneath a very sheer, thin layer I am not well. Upon closer inspection you could see my scars. A new thick short scar on my forehead from falling through the glass window while I was sleepwalking. A long, thick scar running from my lower left rib to my pelvic region. It’s lumpy and sets off metal detectors. I refuse to go through the xray machine. I don’t want to chance any mishaps like leakage. One accidental drip from my pump laying underneath the skin’s surface and I’d die instantly from morphine overdose. I don’t usually obsess over dying from it – it’s made life virtually pain free compared to the long, hard years. The next scar runs along my lower spinal cord. It’s also lumpy. There’s a piece of plastic sitting beneath the surface that bugs me from time to time. I hope no man runs his hand sexily down my back. What? It could happen!
The next 3 scars are a set. I got them from a laparoscopic procedure to take out my gallbladder. I’m temporarily reminded of the horrific pain post-surgery I had been in and the many near misses there were in order to stay at home rather than the hospital. Next my arms -wow! The right arm has a deep wide scar the length of my entire arm underside. It goes from my elbow down to the start of my hand. It’s bumpy, freckley and so long that you can’t help asking what it’s from. The next one is petite and is a soft squishy scar cutting across my belly button. It’s a goto spot for future surgeries.
There’s so many more, but i’ll stop there. Thee scars and lumps are what make it so obvious that I’m nt well. A part of me wants to erase every single one while another part of me is seriously proud of them all. Given the choice I’d keep all of them except the ones running back and forth across my wrists.
love Sasha xoxo