I don’t take photos like this very often. But as I draft this post it is 11:18 AM and I am eating my favorite kind of Kirkland protein bar in the bed. Because it is that kind of morning.
And as it happens, I went to bed in the most awfully despondent kind of mood last night. The kind where I become uber dramatic and morose about the future; I will not repeat what was said.
It was the kind of morning where I did not set an alarm; Jared woke me up long after he’d woken the boys up, to get me to take my morning medicines. He knew he had to do this because if he did not, I might or might not actually take said medications (note: it was my thyroid meds so the likelihood of me taking them was high. But still).
And because Jared loves me and spoils me rotten, for breakfast because he knew comfort foods were in order, he brought me a baggie of Cheez-It’s and my favorite Kirkland Chocolate and Peanut Butter Protein Bar.
And I promptly fell back asleep until after 10 AM.
Because it’s difficult to maintain hope right now.
But, I do have two goals for today:
finish the stitching on my newest jute bag’s liner
Get my jewelry collection back in order, because it is in the kind of embarrassing state that does not reflect my feelings about it.
That’s true, actually, about our house and my body, too; both are in the kind of embarrassing state that does not reflect my feelings about either of them.
Jared told me, as he frequently does, to “be kind to yourself” before he left.
So that’s today’s goal. Even if today is starting at 11:28 AM.
I referred to it a little on the 12th but last week, on the 12th, I had a check-up with my orthopedic PA.
I’m not really sure why I even go. It’s not like there’s more surgery I will ever let them do to me, even if my neck discs are seriously degenerating.
The photo above is my back as it looked on x-ray on Wednesday, November 12.
It’s pretty crazy.
And that whole top curve wasn’t there when I was a teenager or young adult. I assume that is what 4 pregnancies (yes, there were 4 even though there are only 3 boys) and years upon years of laying-in-the-bed-depressed depression will do to me with my brand of scoliosis.
The only real comment the orthopedic PA made was that indeed, there is significant degeneration in the discs in my neck. Such that actually, there was a blank space where there should have been a disc at the base of my neck in front, actually.
That’s probably why my neck hurts when I transition from standing or sitting to lying down in the bed.
And maybe I should feign terror at the utter basic breakdown that is my spine, that is my body.
But to be honest, it’s just my normal. I’ve dealt with this since I was 6 years old, way back in the back brace days.
At least I’ve spent the vast majority of my life without the large lumbar hump that was on the left side of my back as a kid.
My orthopedic PA says she doesn’t measure degrees. She says she’ll know when she should refer me to her surgeon, and he’ll measure degrees then. She knows– rightly– that people obsess over degrees of curvature when– also rightly– degrees don’t necessarily mean a damn thing, especially when there’s rotation or some other such craziness going on.
She didn’t say this time, though, that she’d never see me needing surgery again.
Not sure I would do it though. I’d have to be in an awful– a very awful– amount of pain to agree to give up the mobility I have in my upper back and neck, and that’s what would happen with more fusions.
I’ve had probably 2% of progression in the last two years. She says that’s pretty stable for my particular situation. So much so, that she won’t worry about x-rays when I come back next year.
I did get another referral for physical therapy. I still know a lot of the exercises I was taught last year but I haven’t been super reliable about it since I got depressed and had very bad mental health in the Spring and summer. And of course, I did have a whole hysterectomy in May.
All you people with normal bodies, it must be nice.
When I look at this photo of my x-ray though, it makes complete sense as to why I have mental health issues AND why I have been the object of not-nice men.
We were having lunch on October 20. That room-service grilled cheese was among the better grilled cheese sandwiches I have ever had in my whole life— it was a double-stacker with cheddar cheese and despite the room-service delivery, the bread was not soggy at all. Perfect temperature, too. I guess that’s what you get with luxury hotel room-service.
There was a client call to make. I offered to step out of the room. He said it wasn’t necessary. He called two minutes late; I had to remind him he had to make the call because we were busy talking.
I listened as he made the call to the client in question. They were on speakerphone, so I heard all.
And as I sat there chomping on my grilled cheese sandwich, slightly concerned the party on the other end of the phone would hear my chomping, I sat, thinking about the absurdity of it all.
This guy made a power play by giving client advice, right in front of me, on speakerphone.
He gambled that I would remain silent for the call. And, I did.
I did not ask questions. He offered just enough information after the call to let me figure out later exactly who he had been talking to, though.
It was a reckless show of pretend power by a very arrogant man with the maturity of a 11-year old boy, showing off to me.
It reminded me of sitting in his office in the late winter or early spring of 2000, transcribing bits of his cornerstone paper.
It didn’t take me long to realize exactly what had happened, or exactly what it all meant.
It didn’t take me long to realize that we had come full-circle from November 12, 1998.
It was later that afternon that he asked if I wanted to show him the concerning skin spot that led to my recent diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.
It was later that afternoon that he asked if I ever dressed up as a school girl for my husband.
And it was about the middle of watching the movie “Uncle Buck” with him that I realized the entire situation was absurd; that he was not interested in substantively helping me with my job search or with career advice. He was not even really interested in being my friend.
He was interested in himself. And that was pretty much it.
It’s a tired trope, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it the most tired, boring stereotype that a lot of men fantasize about being with a school-girl in the bedroom?
Apparently it is something alive and well, nonetheless.
And it never, ever occurred to me, though I suppose it should have, that I have, for the entirety of my adult life, been the object of that precise fantasy. A fantasy that did actually play out in real life 27-22 years ago.
The realization hit me like a mild ton of bricks a couple of weeks ago.
It’s so boring though, isn’t it?
I’m going to talk about something personal here— I mean, we don’t need fantasies or games or role playing fantasies in my marriage. Just saying. That bond is just that intense, that real for us.
So when, recently, the person I talked about in my last post suggested that I should perhaps “dress up as a school-girl,” for my husband…. I remained silent, as I recall, and said no, when he asked if I ever do that.
Because I don’t. The honest truth is, I absolutely 100% do not have to.
Of course, it was none of his business, but that was beside the point. I knew that too, and I know harassment when I see it. I may not have known it 27 years ago at 18 years old, but at 46 years old I 100% do now.
And I recently have actually started wearing my hair in pigtails, actually, at 46 years old.
And I realize I do look slightly younger than my age anyway.
And I realize too that even though the pigtails are legitimately the best way (and most comfortable way) to put my hair up at its current length:
I am aware of the stereotype that hairstyle, especially at my age, feeds into.
sigh
Except when I was an actual college student, I ignored the possibility that I was being objectified.
I was so desperate for positive male attention. I was so very desperate to escape the emotionally manipulative relationship I had been in for so many years at that time that, to be honest: my standards were not high. I was attracted to what I read as confidence at the time, that I so clearly see now was exhibitionist narcissism.
And that’s the honest truth of how I let myself become objectified for so many years: I wanted to only be with one person sexually forever, and it happens that something unfortunate happened and I latched onto someone who objectified me.
And it’s true that that happened to me at age 19 while I was in the midst of a psychotic episode.
And for years, after I realized the truth of that situation in 2010, I really and truly thought I was the defective one.
But that is clearly not the case, in so many ways.
I was ill but I was in no way defective.
My character was not defective. Still isn’t.
Except now I am 46 years old. And I pay close attention to what happens around me. Especially when intimate details regarding my marriage are questioned, except it’s funny because actually, my particular husband would 100% find that particular old school-girl trope completely repulsive.
Because he has no perverted tendencies at all; my Jared is the real deal for sure.
And, you know what? I didn’t actually wear my hair in pigtails when I was in high school or college. I was much more likely to go for a french braid.
So, I am going to wear my pigtails, at age 46.
And I am going to hold my head high, knowing that I stuck up for that college-aged version of myself that didn’t know she needed to be protected.
And I am going to write my stories, and I am going to continue to get stronger and stronger. Because I am no longer afraid; I realize I was never the one that was defective; and I am on a rampage of telling my truth.
