A couple of years ago, my orthopedist appointment fell on the anniversary of the assault.

I left it that way: in odd ways that I cannot explain, revisiting orthopedic offices makes me feel triumphant and like why yes, I am indeed living on the now 34 years of borrowed time I might not otherwise have had.

My orthopedic PA doesn’t water things down or shame me about the physical therapy I might or might not do. She said once, “You know the rodeo.” She’s seen the probably 4 feet of metal I have lining my spine.

And so, it is oddly life-affirming that I go and get to see the current state of my back, and have someone remind me that yes, she will keep the physical therapy orders coming and that yes, for this year, I don’t actually require referral to the actual surgeon, and that next year yes, we should consider not doing x-rays because, after all, the sheer amount of radiation my body absorbed from ages 6 to 14 or so was already more than any one human body should ever see.

Maybe I don’t need those x-rays after all.

But I sent a message anyway a week or so ago, because I’d rather see than worry about the radiation. And this year, I’ve actually been working on exercises— hanging, strange bean bag contortions— that feel like they may be doing some good.

I want to see for myself if all this has made any difference at all this year— if the Swedish ladder in the bathroom has helped, if the Schroth breathing exercises have helped. If laying contorted on a beanbag has helped.

I know my shoulders are more straight when I have the energy to hold them as such.

The origins of the PTSD probably wasn’t the first assault. The origin was probably based in childhood medical trauma— my torso was largely immobile from ages 6 to 13 due to bracing, after all.

The very good patient I conditioned myself to be (aside from loosening my brace which I still blame on kids at school who dared me to do it the first time, not knowing they set loose a chain reaction that had very real consequences for my actual physical life-expectancy without surgical intervention)….

That very good patient was also the same personality trait that sent whatever message to my brain (and to predator-types) that why yes, I would be compliant, and why no, I might not even realize what was going on until it was far too late…… being a very good patient is quite attractive to predator types.

And so, on the 28th anniversary of the day I was first sexually assaulted, I will wake up long before sunrise and get myself, alone, to Atlanta, to do x-rays and then sit for 10 minutes while my orthopedic PA tells me I am fine. That’s what I expect anyway.

And, as I become more focused on mindfulness, I did actually answer the questionnaire I filled out online today differently than I would have 10 years ago: yes, my upper back hurts; yes, my neck hurts, yes, my side hurts (there was not a space for that but it is the truth) and yes, it’s there all the time.

And yes, when I lay with a beanbag under my right shoulder blade my whole left side lights up in pain in a way like I haven’t stretched it for 10 years, even though it barely moves if at all. It’s the good sort of stretching pain.

And yes, my hips hurt. All the time. Lying on the floor gives brief relief.

Ten years ago, or longer, when people asked me if my back hurt my answer was, “No.”

Here’s what I’ve learned through mindfulness and working to live in my body: I have been disassociated from living in my actual body for most of my adult life; somewhere in childhood I trained myself to not be in touch with deep tissue physical sensation.

The pain I feel now is not new. It is me getting acquainted with sensations that have been with me for most of my life.

And today, I am spending the day convalescing in my bed after a long day doing precisely what I wanted to do in Atlanta. Because my bipolar nervous system doesn’t differentiate between socializing as recreation and socializing in work environments; it’s all taxing and requires at least a day of recovery.

As much as I crave a steady routine, and a clean house and a beautful yard, I am coming to understand that what I have seen as character defect and laziness (I can hear family telling me I should make myself do things in my head even now, permanently in that shame-loop)…..

I am coming to understand that perhaps it’s enough that my children are fed and healthy and thriving and curious and our older two are out living their best lives;

that I do in fact have a bed to rest in;

that we have enough to eat;

that in fact, none of my children are seeking to escape reality through substances or alcohol;

that my children understand deeply issues of consent in relationship to the extent that the older two are in no hurry to get into serious romantic relationships before being established adults.

Perhaps it is enough that I didn’t break my children despite disabling mental illness.

But for Thursday, much as I’d like for it to be an ordinary day, to not give a marker to a day someone assaulted me under the guise of a welfare check while I was psychotic…. It seems like that would be an old hat sort of thing to just forget about….

I think I might take one of my most prized possessions to my appointment on Thursday: the little 2-inch section of Harrington rod my original orthopedist trimmed off after one of the twist ties holding them together broke, in late 1994. My PA might have the sort of sense of humor to appreciate that I’ve kept it all these years.

It’s somehow life-affirming to go spend a little time reminding myself that why yes, I am in many ways a walking miracle whose heart never was quite crushed yet by that original 87-degree curve that turned into whatever it was by surgery day in 1993.