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"You have breast cancer."
I heard those words, and then had to go about my day to day activities for the next 8 weeks as if everything was normal.
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Dad's talking about faggots again.
I just won't say anything.
Christmas is only so long and then I can get back to Andy.
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I saw my grandmother's message to my mother on an AOL instant messenger screen she forgot to close out
--not much, just a doctor's name, some unusually solemn words.
Google told me the doctor dealt primarily in brain cancers.
I went through the day as normally as I could for my brothers.
quote:
chronic illness
work three jobs and
maintain the house
as your body swells,
you feel really lucky that the most people think of you is you're getting fat.
It isn't fat.
It's the body attacking itself.
fuck healthcare
there isn't a damn thing affordable.
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How many times can you ask for help with your neuroses
before it becomes a burden
to your friends?
they're a lot to handle.
they're unstable.
they're better in doses.
they're better in theory.
I've chosen not to ask this question.
I just don't say anything when I have my attacks.
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OH my god.
Chad has been talking about his car for ten minutes.
Someone please save me from this conversation.
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I walk from car to car on the subway.
I tell the same story.
Lost job.
Lost home.
Kids.
People don't look at me.
People don't want to see me.
People don't want me to exist.
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I'm excited about the parrot I finished making out of legos but no one cares so I don't tell anyone.
Real talk, though, this one is perfect.
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I have worked in libraries almost a decade now.
When I worked on the northside of Fort Worth I would help families with small children.
One time I went to squat down to reach a book on a lower shelf in the kids dept.
There was a small, wooden chair behind me. The kind that is square and SOLID.
Anyways, somehow misjudged the distance, or didn't see the chair and I basically sat on the corner, and landed RIGHT on my tailbone.
It hurt like a BITCH, but I just kind of gritted my teeth, handed the family their book and waited until they'd left to limp back to my desk.
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I'm wheeling myself slowly down a ramp.
I get to the bottom.
Someone behind me hisses: "Finally."
A woman with a stroller scowls at me as she speeds past.
'Excuse me for fucking existing!'
Is something I don't have the energy to yell after her.
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When I was 12 I was drugged, raped, and left for dead in a ditch by my then-boyfriend.
He had actually tried to kill me to make sure I wouldn't talk but I survived.
My parents didn't know I'd gone out with him that night.
I don't remember getting home. I think I climbed back in through a window.
Treated my wounds myself and never told anyone.
I stayed with the guy that did it for six months after that.
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When my mother passed, she thought that all of my failures were her fault.
No matter how much I succeed now, I'll never be able to tell her
that she's responsible for everything good in me, and none of the bad.
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I have problems, sure,
but they're so small and petty.
I smile and swallow every ache and pain,
because at the end of the day,
everyone else is in agony.
I'm not.
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Customers don't care if you have a headache.
Customers don't care if your period just started and your uterus is stabbing you.
Customers don't care if you want to cry.
Customers don't want to see any sign that you exist to do anything other than to scan their item and take their money.
So smile.
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We moved to a different part of the country when I was 12.
I didn't have the easiest time adjusting, but after a few years I met my boyfriend and it got better.
During an argument with my dad he said something that triggered my memories of how lonely I had been.
I walked away and started crying.
He asked what was wrong. I didn't want to tell him, I knew he wouldn't understand.
But he kept pressing.
In the end I tried.
I really tried to explain.
And he laughed at me.
I never mentioned it again.
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When I menstruate I have internal bleeding,
a constant cycle of blood where it shouldn't be and scar tissue formation and pain.
Nothing I say will stop it,
so ignoring it is how I pretend to feel ok.
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Attending a meeting to discuss my performance on a project,
for which I'd been assigned leader,
while my cat is dying at home.
I am only away from him 2 hours,
but I am terrified that he will be gone before I get back.
The whole meeting, I feel like my insides are being clawed out and pulled back to my home.
My eyes prickle. I keep them wide to push the tears back.
I push my nails into my arms and hands to keep my mind at work.
He doesn't lift his head when I come back,
but he chirps as I call his name.
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On my 30th birthday my mother told me that my dad was not my biological father.
She said I couldn't tell him I knew.
She made it my job to tell my sisters.
Every fathers day she calls me to ask when I'm going to do that.
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I hate hospitals.
Contempt borne of familiarity.
Mom is thirsty. I use a mote of Water to fill her glass without getting up.
We talk about stupid, little things
because for the first time in my life
I'm too scared to ask for the truth.
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I am beat up every day after I get off the bus.
I take a knife to school, to protect myself, but they catch me.
I come back from suspension. More bullying.
I have no one to say anything to.
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My mother is crying.
And I'm holding her. And I'm being okay.
She needs me.
My mother needs me to be strong.
The world is breaking.
And I'm being okay.
My mother is crying.
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The first time I figured out that my mothers boyfriend was cheating on her I confronted him.
I had never felt so small in my own home.
I didn't tell my mother.
I was afraid he would hurt me if I said something.
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She'd be happier without me.
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Oh god oh god it hurts.
I think I broke my arm.
How do you tell if you broke your arm?
But if I say something they'll call me a pussy
I'm not gonna say anything.
I'm not a pussy.
Oh god it hurts so much.
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Dad said I can't tell anyone.
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I'm nauseous all the time.
I can't eat anything but toast, but the doctors say there's nothing wrong with me, so maybe I'm crazy.
And I'm losing weight. I guess that's good.
I'll just try to keep down water and dry heave into a trash can.
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My leg is BURNING.
It's not on fire anymore, but it's still BURNING.
How?
Why?
What DOES that?
Harvey is crouched beside me.
I wish he wasn't here (though thank god he was).
He's too young to deal with an adult in this much pain.
So I dig my fingernails into my kneecap and tell him:
"Good job,"
In a steady voice.
"Go find the rest of the class."
To get him out of the room.
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He touches my thigh,
and it feels like slime
but if I tell him to stop he might get angry
so I just laugh and scoot away.
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I am watching the guy I am dating
propose to the girlfriend
I didn't know he had
from a booth
he doesn't know I'm in.
quote:
After carrying 6 bodies of American service members from a Bradley that was hit with a IED,
and loading them into my tracked vehicle,
and then helping unload them to our medic area,
I had to go back out again to continue our mission.
A high ranking officer asked me if I was ok,
because I had a blank stare in my face.
I told him I was fine.
I was not fine.
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My mom knocks to use the bathroom without knowing what I am about to do.
I quietly put the knife in my hoodie and go out to my room.
I go to my room, throw my hoodie out the fourth floor windows, cry, and go to bed.
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Every time I get a "yes sir" and it's not worth correcting.
Every day that I get a "hey man" and it's not worth saying something.
Every time I get a "he/him/his" and even when I correct the person they don't hear me because they don't understand what I mean when I say "she/her/hers"
I'm trying to be polite. I'm trying to stand up for myself, my gender, my identity
as you smash it to pieces without even knowing what you're doing.
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My father doesn't remember who I am most of the time.
When he does remember me, he calls me by my brother's name.
Even at my own wedding.
Talking about it would just make it harder for him and my mother.
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The first man I loved didn't feel the same way back, but stayed in touch with me for five years, and I stuck with it, hoping he'd eventually change his mind and figure out I was the faithful one and love me back.
I finally cut him off because it was killing me.
I feel in love with someone else, and I felt compelled to contact him again.
I thought I was emotionally safe because of Andrew, and we could just be friends like he'd always wanted.
I invited him to my wedding, where he met one of my close friends.
Now they're engaged.
I wasn't entirely right about being safe.
I'm invited to their wedding two weekends from now.
I'm going, but so much of me never wants to hear either of their names again.