Don't Blink

[maryel42]

I told the bathroom thing to my therapist. He said, thank you.

That confuses the hell out of me. I don't know why he thanked me. Because it's a massive thing to trust somebody with? But it's not... it's just something that happened, a long time ago, that I need to get over and that I can't get out of my head. It's one of my secrets.

I'm not sure what I expected. Not "thank you".

In one sense it makes me want to tell him more. In another, it makes me want to never say another word.

I don't know which is going to win.

If anyone reading this can give me insight, I would greatly appreciate it.

 

[maryel42]

Today its water. A thing that happened regularly enough, that I haven't thought about in forever, and its linking back from that bathroom abuse...

And its hard to breathe because half of me is back in the past. Water on my face, over my nose, cant breathe except through my mouth shallowly, and the water is so cold my scalp hurts.

I hurt. I don't breathe. I want to vanish away altogether. I don't know how to say this. I don't remember how to speak of it.


So much pain. Today I am the pain. It's all of me.

 

[maryel42]

The room is dim. That's something that all the treatment rooms were, in the end. Dim. And as much as I hated the ones in the city hospital, the ones at the local were nearly as bad. It was a local day that I remember the most. That's the one that's burned into my brain.

My grandmother was the one who was taking me in for it. I don't know if she was crying too. I think a lot of the adults cried, some, in the end.

The veins in my hands were gone that round. As much as I couldn't stand it, I'd do anything to have them try again and again. I don't want to be here. I don't want to know.

Somebody is prepping my foot. Somebody else is holding it still. There are more people holding my legs. And more holding my body still and two each on my shoulders and arms. I'm trying with all my strength to pull away but they won't let me. I can't avoid this. It's going to happen whatever I do. I don't want to do this. I am so tired of the sickness. I'm tired of pain, I'm tired of not being like other kids. Of not being allowed to try. The room is dim. The walls are green.

Fire in my foot. First the pain, searing. Then the fire. My leg is burning and cold and I'm shaking and I'm crying and I can't breathe again. I want it out. I want it gone. I want to reach down and pull it out and go away but they won't let me. It will all have to be done again if I try.

I'm learning to hold still. I'm learning to not fight. If all my screaming and crying and fighting aren't enough to make the pain stop, it's useless to try anymore. I have to be happy. I have to smile and look for the happy in it. I have to make the grownups feel better so that they'll be happy and won't leave me.

If I forget to pretend that it's not hurting so badly, mom will cry more. Dad will leave and never come back this time. Nobody will love me and I'll be left in this hospital forever.

Sometimes I wish I could stay there in the hospital forever.

But my feet are burning and my legs are burning and there's metal in me that I can't ever get rid of. In my hands, my wrists, my feet, and it doesn't belong in me but I have to pretend it's not there. It's again and again and my body doesn't want to obey me.

I have to make it obey. I have to be good, or my eyes will stop working again. My body will stop again. I don't want to die again today.

 

[maryel42]

I am afraid when the nurses come in. I don't want to do this again. I'm burrowing back in the bed and starting to cry, but it's got to be done. I have to learn to hold still for it. I have to learn to smile when they're done, and say Thank You, and I need to reassure them that it's okay. That they didn't hurt me.

But they do.

I don't remember how long, how often, but I remember screaming. Screaming and crying and wanting it to end, but it's got to be done and it will be done and there's nothing I have any choice over.

Except smile, and say Thank You, and have a Good Attitude. Because if I don't have a Good Attitude, it will make my mama cry. It will hurt her heart and she'll be sad and it'll be my fault.

So I don't. So I learn.

The treatments continue. This one is to help my lungs. It's to loosen the mucus so that I don't get sicker. I can't get sicker. I have to just try harder to get better. It will not help. I can't will myself better.

There's no padding on my back. Just skin and bone, no cushions at all to soften the blows. I don't think it's supposed to hurt. It does. Nobody cares that it does. All they can do is follow the orders on my chart. It hurts.

This is why I can't stand the sound of flesh-on-flesh impact. Why I panicked so badly during volleyball, why I shuddered and curled up in a ball and never quite entirely knew why the sound in particular hurt so bad.

This is why I don't let anyone touch my back. Why it takes a special effort not to flinch.

My back isn't as bad as my feet. That doesn't mean it's not bad.