For most of my life, I’ve defined myself mostly by what I am not. I am not normal. I am not like other people. I am not feminine in that I don’t care about fashion, hair, or makeup. Though since the hospital, I’ve been having more fun with my hair. I did it in Chun-Li buns at first, minus the turkey leg cups on top. That was because I had a sore on the back of my head from lying in bed for two weeks and wearing my hear in my usual high bun. It’s cute as fuck and it doesn’t tangle my hair as quickly as before.
Before the hospital stay, I hated the way I looked. I avoided pictures and didn’t look in mirrors unless it was strictly necessary. I hated how fat I was and I’ve always felt I was ugly. Well, until a few years before the medical trauma, at any rate. I’ve had a lot of negative experiences in my life concerning bodily autonomy that made me have body issues across the board. Taiji made me more appreciative of my body and what it could do. It didn’t mean I loved it, but I didn’t hate it any longer.
Then, the medical trauma. I’ve spoken at length as to how being in the hospital really cured me of my body issues. I had teams of nurses and aides looking after me, which included literally wiping my ass after I took a shit. And I didn’t always make it to the bathroom. Before I could actually go to the bathroom, I just shit in my pull-ups and they changed them for me. Mostly women, but some men and maybe some people who identified as nonbinary. They all treated me with compassion and respect, like I was a human being worthy of being treated with dignity. There was one man who was brisk and didn’t show much emotion, but it wasn’t as if he had disdain for me. He just didn’t care for that part of the job, for which I couldn’t really blame him. He was professional about it and good at it, so I didn’t mind. He didn’t make me feel like I was a burden or that he found it distasteful; he just seemed like he’d prefer to be doing something else. Which, honestly, I couldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to wipe someone else’s ass, either, which is one reason I never wanted children.
The other nurses and nurse’s aides and PCAs all made me feel safe and cared for, which, yes, was part of their job. But they made it seem like they actually cared and not just because they had to. I didn’t care if it was real or not; it made it easier for me to accept the circumstances to lean into the warmth. They didn’t treat me like I’m disgusting or gross. They didn’t act as if they were merely tolerating me and my body. They were nurturing and patient, and they never raised their voices at me.
Well, that’s not exactly true ,but that was my fault. I was determined not to ask for help because I could do it myself, damn it. That meant I refused to press the emergency button and caused a lot of angst for my minders. There was one particular time that ended with me on the floor, smearing blood everywhere. It was like a crime scene, honestly, and when the nurse found me, she said, “I’m all for a strong independent woman who can do it for herself, but it’s ok to ask for help.”
So, yeah. I’m over my body issues. What’s even more interesting is that I’m over my hatred of my face, too. I had reached the point of being neutral about it, but I still hated having my picture taken. When I looked in the mirror, all I could see was the folds and the flabs, not to mention the wrinkles and imperfections. My fat cheeks displeased me; the only thing I liked were my eyes, my smile, and my hair. I still didn’t go out of my way to look in mirrors, but it wasn’t a burning hatred, either, when I glimpsed myself in one.
Now, however, I’m cute as fuck. I got new glasses, Betsy Johnson’s, that are funky and fun, and they suit me perfectly. I normally get oval or rectangle-shaped glasses with black rims. These are cat-eyed shape, are progressives, and sunglasses, and I love them. The frames are white with black polka dots whereas the tops of the frames are black with white polka dots. One arm is black with white polka dots and the other is white with black polka dots. Each has a bright pink heart on the end of the arms. Oh, and the frames are plastic. They are not like any other glasses I’ve ever had, but when I saw them, I instantly fell in love with them. I looked at a dozen other frames, but I could not get them out of my mind. New me, new glasses? Why the hell not?
I have gotten so many compliments on them and it really perks me up. The old me would never have bought them, dismissing them as too frivolous or too girlish. The new me embraced the new glasses and wore them with pride. I wear my computer glasses on the regs (black framed, rectangle), but I wear the funky ones when I go out and feel cute as fuck! I’ve posted pics of myself on Twitter wearing them and my different hairstyles, and I never posted pics of myself on Twitter until after I got out of the hospital. I was really charmed by my Chun-Li buns and my new glasses, which felt good for a change. It felt really strange. I wasn’t used to liking how I looked, but I was down with it.
It was…nice. It really was. And I didn’t do anything to earn it. Well, except go through the worst experience of my life. But after decades of hating my body and face, worrying about them, and thinking I’m ugly as fuck (as well as fat, gross, and disgusting), it’s really strange for all that to have vanished. Evaporated as if it was never there. It’s really bizarre. I’ll take it, obviously, but I can’t help marveling about it sometimes.
It’s been nearly five months since that fateful night. It’s funny that I went from counting weeks to counting months right around two months. I wonder when it’ll broaden out to ‘some time ago’, but I have a hunch not before the first year anniversary. Five months. How the hell has time flown so quickly? Another positive is that I’m practicing my weapons more than I had before the hospital. And I’ve kept the warmups that I started doing when I first came home from the hospital before I was ready to tackle the weapons again.
My body is fucking amazing! Five months ago, I had walking pneumonia, which led to two cardiac arrests and a stroke. That’s still so weird to write. It’s surreal because I have been given the clean bill of health. No brain damage. No body damage–except some scars from the blood draws. Oh, and maybe a little bit of short-term memory issues. Just a little! Other than that, I am back and better than ever, bay-bee!
My brother and I have talked several times about what happened to me that night. We both have marveled that I escaped the night without a scratch, really, when I should be dead. That’s something that’s always in the back of my mind. I should not be here, but I’m damn glad I am.