I’ve been really hesitant to publish this one. Thanks Laura, for giving me courage.
Sunday marked exactly two months since the accident. Most of my physical injuries have healed; my collarbone hurts occasionally and sometimes my face throbs where it was patched back together, but they’ve mostly healed. Lots of my emotional wounds haven’t.
People have been generous with their words about how positive I’m being. That is not a false front; I have lots to be grateful for and I genuinely am happy most of the time. But I’m here to tell you that it’s still hard. That everything I’m dealing with is, at times, overwhelming.
My life is a glass ball. It was cracked in January by my dad leaving, broken in February by an official divorce, and smashed to pieces in June. It’s slowly being put back together, piece by piece. It’s been a large exertion of effort on my part and an even greater collective effort of others. From cars and houses to retainers and running shoes, things are slowly being restored. There's still work to be done, but I feel a semblance of something normal again. However, that glass ball will never be the way it was. It will always have scars, and maybe some pieces will never be recovered. Coping with that fact isn’t always easy. In my weaker moments I long for the days when things were comfortable, normal, the way I liked them. I do my best to adjust, to find wonderful things to love about my patchwork life. But it’s not easy.
You know how people have flashbacks in movies? How they randomly have images of accidents or moments of horror flash through their minds? Well its real. For me, anyway. It happens when I experience similar emotions. It’s like my brain sees what I'm going through and how I feel and brings back associated memories. Like that one three second long memory where I came to consciousness lying on a road with my bloody, broken head, trying to ignore the man in the brown baseball cap. That moment lasted an eternity. I could feel the heat of the sun, the stillness of the air, the way there was no traffic rushing by. The way everything just stopped for a few seconds and I was lying there completely broken and completely helpless. Sometimes that memory keeps me company when I feel emotionally broken. And I just want to sit and let nothing happen. To not move because it might make things worse. To ignore the man shouting questions in my face. To let the world go by because nothing else matters except how injured I am. That moment was easy compared to the way things are now. I was justified in lying there. These days I have to stand up, to complete tasks, to act as though everything’s fine when really, it’s not. I miss that day, those three seconds.
Sometimes the memory keeping me company is the one in the hospital the first night where the oxygen mask burned my lips and breathing gave me the sensation that I was on fire. I couldn't move, I couldn’t scream, and I couldn't do anything but sit and feel the pain. It was therapeutic for me to experience that pain so completely. I couldn’t do anything to lessen the pain, I just had to let it wash over me until it passed. There are times when the emotional pain is so real, so tangible, I just sit and let it hurt until it stops hurting. I don’t enjoy it, but in the end it’s okay.
I’m a sensitive person. I get my feeling hurt way too easily. I freely admit that. My heart aches when people don’t want to be my friend, when people disappoint me, when my feelings get hurt. I try to avoid subjects and situations that would create conflict because I when I’m involved in conflict I always end up feeling crummy about myself. It’s a vicious cycle. Guess what: people are sometimes insensitive to my situation. People try to make excuses for other people—they don’t know what to say to you, they don’t know how to make things better, you know. Things like that. While I try to be understanding, it still hurts. And it hurts to deal with more than I’m already dealing with—the last thing I need right now is crap from other people. I’m trying to keep my head up and I’m trying to make the best of everything, but sometimes it’s hard and I spend a lot of time crying. Just sayin’.
I frequently—no, constantly miss Jada. Sometimes the thought of her not being alive pops out of nowhere and makes my throat tight and my eyes water. Nine times out of ten I suppress it and focus on other things. But know that I cry ten percent of the time. [Yes, simple math makes me feel like I’m in control.] I am sad that my friend is not here to be my friend. I will probably have moments where I’m sad about that for the rest of my life. And that’s fine. She was an important part of my life, and will always be important in one way or another.
Because I love that beautiful girl.
And the thought of her brings me peace. I am completely capable of moving past this. I will usually feel better tomorrow or in a few days. Until then I pour out my words into this little blog of mine, untangling the way I feel with words, releasing the tightness in my chest and the pain in my heart. Healing a little at a time.
[Title from Shelter by Sherwood]