The skin and the fatty layer that lies just beneath my thigh have been savagely torn away from it leaving exposed assorted body parts that are much better left covered; that is, if I had my druthers, which of course I do not. I know that if I look down quickly I will see muscle tissue twitching spasmodically, vessels of various sizes throbbing to a beat that is innately mine alone, nerve fibers that are screaming for shelter in the midst of the electrical storm they themselves are throwing from all of the input so rudely thrust upon them, and various other body tissues throwing their own tantrums. It has to be a quick look, faster than an eye blink, for me to see this.
If I take longer than that, my mind has time to override what I am seeing and it creates something more believable and acceptable than this horrific reality. It neatly replaces the insulating fat over all the tissues, then lays a coat of skin for protection and encapsulation. My eyes make me aware that everything looks as it should; my hand gently, lightly, strokes downward, fingertips barely touching the area, and feels what should be there; I am aware of the sound of skin touching skin, and it is heard as it should be. Perception.
My world is all about perception. Of course, so is yours. Our world, our lives, our threads to reality, however delicate or strong, are all based and judged by how we perceive that which is around us, created by us, happening to us. That which we cannot stand, cannot comprehend, cannot endure, yet cannot for whatever reason change, we reassess, making new judgments, drawing new conclusions if we must.
So far, I have only described for you my thigh; I will get to the lower part, the instigator, all in due time. I just wanted you to somehow comprehend and understand from the get go that I cannot endure what my leg tells me has happened to it. Not one more day can I survive this; not even one. Every day I tell myself that. Every single damned day. Then the next day arrives; again I tell myself I cannot, will not, tolerate this injustice any longer. Yet here I am, more than four years after the fact. Still wallowing in self-pity, still disclaiming the ability to withstand the onslaught, I am still here, counting the days and months as they slowly go ticktocking by, like the sound a grandfather clock makes in the middle of a sleepless hot southern summer night.
Enduring all of, and whatever, life is handing me takes everything that I have: every ounce of energy, every fiber of my being, every thought that bids for survival, every single day.
Endure. Now there is a word for you. It is supposed to be when you bear pain without flinching. Guess I have to find a new word for what it is that I am doing, then. I do flinch. Often. It is usually the knife jabs or the electrical shocks, the ones that are regularly administered, that produce the flinching. But this brings us back to the perception line of reasoning.
If you are stabbed in the dark with what feels like the largest and meanest looking knife in one of those chef knife sets, feeling the blade burn through the skin, slicing the muscle, sinking all the way to the bone, and you somehow manage to struggle to a lighted area only to find that there is no blood, no wound, no discernable reason for your pain, have you or have you not been pierced by something? This is kind of like asking if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there does it make a sound. It is all in the damned perception. No wound, no stab. Easy, isnt it. Not after you have felt that knife sink in. Wound or not, believe me, you have been stabbed. Now, how did all of this come to be?
I certainly wasnt always this way. Happy, in love, healthy, eagerly looking forward to the treasure that each day brought to me, setting new goals, trying new adventures, enjoying the sheer glory of life in a renewed way; yes, that was my life.
I am still in love; very deeply, enduringly, gratefully cradled by love. But the rest has gone by the wayside. No gradual withdrawal, no kiss good-bye, no warning. It was instead ripped from me like a hurricane snapping branches off of a mighty old oak tree that had the audacity to have grown in its path, all the while its wind whispering how dare you grow in such a proud way, leaving it a stripped bare skeleton of its former self. It only took a few seconds to change my life. Not even minutes. Seconds.
Somewhere between a tick and a tock the earth was no longer under my feet. Somewhere in that moment, a lifetimes worth of changes were laid out for me. I was not privy to such at first, instead being told that all would be okay, things would return to normal, everything was healable. Now I scream Lies.all lies in my head. I scream it with such strength and veracity that I know if I gave it a voice, actually said it out loud, my throat would surely be damaged, hoarse beyond belief, and my eardrums would shatter, not able to withstand the decibels. It would be a sound that could drive the sane round the bend. So instead, I scream it inside. But, I am digressing.
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