Worth

 

Feeling desired, wanted, beautiful, treasured, precious, special, unique. Pursued....

These are feelings I think every woman longs for. Even the most independent, self-reliant of women. Even the woman who doesn't even know she wants it.

You see, I believe that God created women with that desire innately in their heart. In fact, since we are created in His image, it only makes sense.  I'm sure a lot of you have read the book, Captivating, which goes into all of that. But I'm not here to discuss that right now; I'm only going to tell my story and how I feel because that is the way I operate-who I am. I tell my story through the lens of my experience with my feeble words. 

The homeostatious of Men's attention. I've had it my entire life in a way so tangible, it feels as natural as breathing, my heart beating, a blush. 

Their eyes-greedy, unfolding me like tissue paper, holding my flesh, my breasts, my skin in-between fingers making of me a gift I never offered. 

My body has never belonged solely to me. I gave it away in small doses in exchange for love. A piece of my thighs, a forged grin, my belly, painting my face, uncovering my body and sharing bits & pieces in tight white dresses, jean shorts & low-cut blouses. 

I learned how a laugh could invite a man to think he could come into the cocoon of my skin, how to hide myself in the floorboards & sink into the walls wherever I went to feel safe from their stares. I kept my legs crossed and my arms folded in the hopes I could be safe and alone within myself. 

Now I am an inanimate object. A sexless machine. A piece of cutlery in the kitchen that no one uses. I do not know if I will ever be used to the glances that pass over me, the glances that do not exist for me anymore. 

I have dated since this ordeal. I have dated a lot. With various men. Smart men. Funny men. Handsome men. Abusive men whose palm of the hand was the closest I ever truly got to them. Men who cheated, who told me I wasn't enough. Men who made me hate my sheath-skin. 

In some ways, my body betraying itself has given me the opportunity to find the ones who are better than what I would've gone for before, because they aren't bothered by my tired hands-dark bruised, purple. My dangling feet, my broken smile. They see me oak tree strong. My brokenness as beauty. 

I love my heart. 

My courage. 

My strength. 

My fight. 

But I am lonely. 

I am afraid. 

I want to be the missing piece to someone's puzzle. 

Will I ever be anything to someone but a careless tourist in my own body?

I try to remember this. 

I Am Just A Head

[I suppose I should "introduce" myself in a way. While I'd rather you find out with me, as I really have no clue sometimes myself-how does one label oneself?-I will allow you a small glimpse into the beginning of (one) of my stories. 

 I am just a head  

Colors hazy. Lights brighter. I can only make out family members by their voices.

 Muffled.

Recognized from some far away place a

long time ago. 

The  echoes remind me I am not at home.

 Complete darkness never comes.  

Sounds louder.

 the swoossh of the ventilator

The beeps on my leads.

Doors opening and closing.

The every 15 minute motorized mechanical vibe of the blood pressure cuff.

 Smells the most potent of all. 

Acidic lysol. Bleach. 

The Milky vomit of the feed that 

            D

               R

                   I

                      P

                         S

Down my nose

Baby powder-latex gloves-urine

When one nurse leans over me,

 I greedily breath her in.

cinnamon chewing gum,

 cigarette smoke,

 the inside of a purse

The food eaten in front of me that I cannot eat.

 I ask to watch the Kardashians because that was my favorite guilty pleasure before I was here in this place.

A nurse says, " I can't imagine any of them having to go through something like this. They couldn't."

In this particular episode, they are discussing rumors of Kim having butt implants

Glossy hair extensions. 

Tan skin. 

Perfectly arched brows.

Plush couches. 

Designer clothes

Health

 A study in contrast:. 

Feeding tubes. 

Hospital gowns.

Catheter bags. 

Sister crying in the hallway. 

Shaved baby bird heads with spinal fluid seeping out.

I ask my mother when I can go back to school and work. She tells me she withdrew me from school and put me on leave from work.

There was a time when anger was closed door sullen.

New this gagged- hog-tied-frustration. 

She doesn't have the heart to tell me the doctor tells her I'll never 

breath on my own

move 

feel

talk 

or 

eat again.  

But, she lies as mothers do and says, "You were in a really bad wreck, honey. It will probably take a few months, then you can go back."

I cry for the first time. I ask her to kill me.

Every time I wake, I ask where my boyfriend is.  I need him there. We haven't  spent a day apart in two years. Off in rehabilitation in another state, I am lonely in a way I've  never felt. I can't understand what is more important than being with me.

 We are In love.

So Momma lets me call him.

I have no voice.

 I mouth words to her to tell him. All I can say is, "I love you" over and over again. When I finally hear his voice call me our favorite pet name "pup,"  I sleep easy through the night.  

Neurons firing memories deleted from my hard drive. 

My spinal cord a dead whale, 

belly-up 

swelling. 

nerves scrambling in

my confused body, 

lost in roads it has never travelled. 

Disorientation.

 

I am unable to tell where my body is in space. 

I am sterile. White. Cleansed. Purer than I've ever been. A nun. 

Two things happen next: I am able to wiggle my toes, and wake up out of a dead sleep when I feel my nurse touch my arm. 

Still mainly a head. 

But a little bit of an arm and some toes leaves an invisible smirk.