For the first year after my medical crisis, I was concentrating on, well, adjusting to being alive. Still. A month or so after I got out of the hospital, my mother started bugging me about what I was going to do with the rest of my life. In retrospect, I’m sure it’s because my father bugged her about it, but I was understandably upset. I had just died. Twice. Maybe a bit of time before questioning me about the rest of my life, which I almost didn’t get? It got so bad, I had to finally tell her that I was not talking about it for 3-6 months.
That was my first mistake. Giving her a range, I mean. Actually, my first mistake was giving her any details at all. I should have just said I was focusing on my recovery and left it at that. It probably wouldn’t have stopped her line of thinking, but it might have put a damper in it. Doubtful, but a sliver of hope.
The problem is, though, that it’s no good thinking what might have stopped her because it’s a crapshoot. More to the point, if she’s determined to hammer a point home, nothing is going to stop her. It didn’t matter that I died and came back to life twice. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want to talk about it while I was still weak from my ordeal and completely high on all the drugs coursing through my veins. She was going to talk about it, damn it, come hell or high water.
Once she went back to Taiwan, it was easier to brush her off. Even then, though, talking to her for half an hour every other week or so is a chore. I would rather never talk to her again, but I’m not going to do anything that drastic. I will say that being able to talk about it with my brother has helped me deal with it because I no longer feel like I’m making shit up. I mean, I know I’m not, but it’s easy to feel gaslight by my mother because of her unswerving belief that her vision of the world is completely right. Which it’s not. It’s more wrong than it is right, but she’s so constant in what she believes, it’s hard to push back against it.
Anyway. It’s been a year. I am physically completely recovered from my medical trauma. The side effects are minimal. I do have some slight memory issues, but it’s not a big deal. And I had trouble doing simple subtraction in my brain, but I have a calculator on my computer. It’s all good in the hood. I have more energy than I did before, and I’m doing more Taiji than I did before.
Side Note: I am really feeling my oats in my post-death life. I was skating along beforehand, which is no shade to me. Much of life is skating along and doing what you’ve always done. That’s called a routine, which is not to be disdained. We can’t do things differently all the time–that’s utter chaos. Most people have responsibilities they can’t just ditch on a whim. Children, for example.
Anyway.
For the first 35 years of my life, I was a complete hot mess. My childhood was deeply dysfunctional and I did not come out of it intact. Anxiety, depression, body dysphoria, self-hatred, and more. I didn’t think I had the right to be alive. I had to earn every day I opened my eyes. When I went to sleep at night ,I half-hoped that I would not wake up again.
I hated myself for that whole time. I could not see any value I added to the world. I should just be dead.
Then, I started taking Taiji. Fifteen years of practice moved me gradually and painfully to studied neutrality. I wasn’t toxic, no, but I also wasn’t adding anything positive to the world. I didn’t want to rip the flesh off my body, but I also didn’t want to see it in the mirror. At all. The best I could hope for was that I wasn’t a burden on the world.
Then, my medical trauma happened. And I was treated with dignity and respect while in the hospital, even when my team members were wiping the shit off my ass. That cured me of my body hatred in an instant.
Now, I love my body. I think I am all that and a bag of fucking chips! I love my curves and the fact that my body got me through an ordeal that kills mere mortals. I should have died and I didn’t because my body said, “Not today, Satan. Get the fuck behind me.”
My body is stronk. STRONK. I did not have to do a lick of rehab/physical therapy when I left the hospital. I was able to walk four or five days after I woke up. Wobbly, shaken, and unsteady on my feet, but I actually walked up and down the hall with a two-minute rest in the lobby.
This is huge! The fact that I’m alive is a fucking miracle, and as I go into my second year of my re-birth, I want to focus on the possibilities of my new life. I am fortunate in that I work from home and for myself.
I was messaging with K the other night. We were reminiscing about a trip we had taken with a mutual friend (one she had just recently had dinner with) that was a wild and wonderful time. K’s brother’s band was playing in Kansas City the next night, and we decided to go and hear them play. K loved driving, so she drove us down. We had seafood, danced our asses off until two in the morning, slept a few hours, then drove back. She drove us back. It was so much fun and almost completely spontaneous. We were in our late twenties, so we didn’t have much tying us down. Neither of them had their kids yet, so we were good to go.
K was saying that now that she was over fifty, she wanted to do something like that again. Not to mention that the whole world just went through a collective trauma over the last two-and-a-half years. I realize that part of my liberation is that I’d been so careful during the pandemic and am still being so careful now. But I made it through death–twice! And, yes, I’m going to keep harping on it.
That was not supposed to happen. I was not supposed to wake up. I cannot stress enough that I should be dead now. I should not be here.
I’ve been tweeting the last few days about the arctic front that is sweeping through the state. It reached 38 degrees last night, and I flipped on the heat. It didn’t go on until later because I have it set at 60 for the night and 62 for the day.
Autumn is my second-favorite season in part because it leads to my favorite season, WINTER! There is something wonderful about the leaves changing and gently wafting to the ground. Watching it is, I mean, while sipping hot coffee or tea, burrowed under my faux fur throw on my couch with my cat on my legs. It’s pure bliss.
I’m no closer to discovering what I want to do next, but I’m amped up for fall!