July 2020

I have walked the corridors of shame my entire life. My circumstances had taught me to be very comfortable with being the one cast aside, the girl whose nose was pressed against the glass, watching all the cool and popular people gather in groups that I would never be welcomed into. With anxious breath fogging my view, I observed them, the shiny, confident chosen ones, certain that they possessed something I didn’t have, some sort of magical, inherent hierarchy that for whatever reason I missed out on. Intuitively, and with my whole being I knew that the home and family in which I lived was not normal, and just as certainly, I didn’t know what normal looked like. I just knew it was a thing. A thing that meant light and beauty and laughter. A thing my friend had that made her mother smiling and kind. A blinding contrast to my life, that was filtered through a lens of intermittent joy, darkness, comfort and pain, both insidious and unimaginable, yet as familiar as my favorite ragdoll. Something in me burned to be on the other side of that glass, to know what it felt like to be included, to belong, completely and totally myself. Whoever that was.

I spent years doing persistent, gut wrenching, soul searching work to uncover the truth of who I really was, years of reading other people’s words and hearing other people’s voices before I could find my own. Mine was buried. Buried beneath the rubble of a city burning down, a city that enrobed a life that should have guided me, but was never fully lived. All because the cycle of abuse had never been broken, and my stunningly beautiful mother would bear the brunt of that and pass it on to me. You cannot raise a healthy child if you are nearly shattered and splintering at the seams yourself. You cannot instill in a child the worth that they deserve if you do not first see it in your core. And ultimately you cannot do anything else but punish a child for their strength when you see yourself as weak and unable to survive in the life you’ve been given, a picture perfect, white picket fence fairytale you were expected to live even though you were never up to the task. My mother didn’t know what to do with any of the emptiness that plagued her or the weight of responsibility that slowly crushed her. A Leave It To Beaver society and the trappings of religion created no room for her mental illness, her alcoholism, the shadows of a father’s wrath, the heartbreak of being abandoned by a cheating husband and the residual effects of living a domestic lie, raising 5 children, mostly alone and uneducated. When life gives you sensuality and abuse brainwashes to believe it is your only value, it is what you use when all else fails. And she did. It is where you tell yourself you feel most loved, even as the revolving door of men strips away your confidence, your dignity, and ultimately, your being. So when you turn to a liquor bottle and pills, you hide it behind yet another label of untruth called migraines. That was manageable, acceptable, that was something people understood. She could black out for days and never face the reality of her choices. Everything else bubbling beneath the surface, brutal, undaunted and painful in a way you didn’t know you could overcome, had to hide behind that label too. I know how lonely it is to live behind pretense and deception, to hide in the darkness of shame so no one will know the truth you’re drowning in. I think that was the most heartbreaking thing for me to realize, to watch my mother disappear into someone unrecognizable, never truly realizing her potential or living a life that belonged to her. As a family, my three sisters, one brother and I lived the story of the lie as expected. We pretended to be normal. We had chores, we sang together, we went to church and vacation Bible school and celebrated Christmas like it was the happiest, most sacred day on earth. We posed for traditional pictures in our Sunday best, happy, content, hiding behind a facade of big hair, toothy smiles, creased trousers, shiny shoes and matching dresses. But we lived in fear. In sadness. We lived waiting for the other shoe to drop, never truly safe. Always mistrusting. We faced each day, surviving, looking for our way out.

You’ll never have to wonder what shame looks like because you will recognize it by its darkness. It sulks in the corner, shrouded in layers of desperate lies, the lies that they created to make you responsible for their depravity. The falsehoods you have to spend a lifetime unlearning and unbelieving. My sexual, emotional and physical abuse would find its way into every decision I made, every relationship I encountered, every narrative I would tell myself for years. But I was always the strong one and there was a flame burning in me, a fire that smouldered quietly beneath the bitterness and pain. I was not about to let any of those people steal who I was or take my god given gifts of trust, sexuality, or wholeness. I would fight like hell to make my way back, to step out of the shadows of shame that never belonged to me. 

It took me a long time to realize what I was feeling, that the fire in me was my actual authentic self, my voice and essence. The person I was before the joy robbers told me who to be. Before the labels. Before the expectations. Before the darkness. But there is a Knowing deep inside, a voice that consistently whispers until you find your way home to it. I was always in there. I just didn’t know where ‘there’ was.

My mother died 9 days before my 20th birthday. She was only 47. It was a standard ulcer operation that caused an infection. But I believe mostly it was apathy. My mother was tired, she had nothing left in the world, did not like who she had become and had nothing more of herself to give. I think she needed to rest. I’m glad she is.

I’ve come to terms fully with the way I grew up and the fact that those of us surviving in my family never or rarely speak. I’ve done my work and we’ve all made choices, and while it is sad, it is understandable and something they have chosen as a way to cope with those emotions they can’t face. I have, with intention and purpose, created a life of light, color and complete authenticity. It began as a journey I made for myself, then for my children. I knew if I was ever going to break the chain of the violence and fear I lived with, I would have to do the hardest work of my life and face every bit of it fiercely and without hesitation. Many people don’t do it because it’s brutal and it’s not something you do once. It’s a lifetime of growing, evolving, being open to change. Now, with gratitude and without anger, I am blessed with beautiful children, loving friends and a life I look forward to everyday. I spent so much of my existence feeling like I didn’t matter, like my feelings weren’t allowed, and my voice wasn’t welcome. My difficulties have made me kind, aware, and inclusive. I have, for as long as I can remember, wanted to make others feel like they matter, because it was not so long ago that I was that girl with my nose against the glass, hiding in darkness of shame. 

I will do anything in my power to prevent another person from feeling like that. Life should be experienced in the light! That is the power and moral of my story.

A strange queasiness in the pit of my stomach swelled to a lump rising in my throat, followed by tears, hot and salty against my cheeks. I told myself I was ready, but there are some things you can only be ready for by experiencing them. The loss was not only tangible, it was visceral. I had to look, to see it, to own it. This wasn’t a finger I recognized, the one I had spent my whole life with, used to hold a pen and write letters with. No, this stubby little half finger was disarming at first glance, shockingly so. And to me, ugly and unfamiliar. 

I hadn’t expected to see the results of my surgery and amputation for two weeks, but my bandages came loose on the third day, causing friction between the two surgical sites and it had to be rewrapped. I knew I needed to make a decision as to whether or not I would look at it. Yet. But the way I navigate a challenge given me is to face it head on, no matter how difficult or fierce. When the lab tech peeled the last bit of gauze from my wounds, it took my breath away and I requested a few moments to lean into the weight of the emotions that came over me. My friend held my hand as I cried. I was grateful that the excruciating pain from the metal was gone, after an exhaustive, difficult year. And I was heartbroken that it had come to this.  

That same day my boyfriend’s daughter was hospitalized for a gunshot wound and my roommate, who is going through cancer, was dealing with some very difficult symptoms. Instinctively, I wanted to be there for them, to help ease their pain, while managing my own, and they wanted to do the same for me. These losses were personal, connecting us by our own humanity and wouldn’t be resolved quickly. 

That next two weeks went by, in a blurred, dizzying array of heaviness, lingering and deeply felt. As intellectually prepared as I knew I was for my surgery, I also anticipated that there would be many more feelings bubbling to the surface and, boy oh boy, was I right! I had no idea how to traverse having a finger amputated because I’ve never done it before. As with everything I’ve never done before I tried to start with what I knew, and that was listening to my body because every response it shares with me is there to help me find my way. Between the upheaval in my living space and continued chaos in the world I simply could not hear it. I realized that a lot of that was my own fragility, both emotionally and physically, but this was all so foreign, and I felt lost. None of my coping skills seemed to be working. Literally, part of every day found me crying, seemingly out of the blue, feeling confused and unequipped to deal with the ups and downs that were ravaging my body. I wanted to record my feelings as I clumsily made my way through this new experience, to talk about the spiraling thought process, share those real and raw moments of mourning, and not just for my own release but in the hopes that I might help another person. Sadly, I couldn’t find my way to writing and wasn’t ready to let our collective situation disconnect me, but I lacked the energy to do anything except let go. There was no respite from something I couldn’t identify. So it remained in our home, clouding our normal, affectionate existence, shrouding it with emotional pollution, smoggy and stifling. Eventually, I made the decision to just let all of it teach me, to not worry about figuring it out or changing it, but just to sit with it. 

To be okay with not being okay. This shit was hard.

I reminded myself that I could be present for these men I love and share a home with, but I wasn’t responsible for them, nor them for me. I owned what was mine and they owned what was theirs and we showered each other with grace and transparency, working together to create the most loving supportive environment we could muster. It was the permission we gave ourselves to navigate our experience the way we needed to, and it is how we healed.

Fast forward to now and I find myself in a better head space. I’ve acknowledged the gravity of all this, the fog is lifting, we are all reconnecting and coming to the other side of our own trauma. Time offers perspective. I got my stitches out on Friday and now I am in the process of conquering the mundane and the miraculous with my new fingers. Both need time to mend from the incisions, and the middle one still needs to be splinted while the bone holes heal from the metal plate and 7 screws. Of course, there’s pain and a great deal of fatigue, along with the readjustment. I don’t cry now every time I look at my finger. In fact, I am learning to be comfortable with how it looks and feels. I experience phantom pain everyday, so I wrap the little nubby in a blanket and squeeze the end that’s missing to remind my brain there’s nothing there. The sensation of an actual finger is currently drowned out by nerve damage. It’s wildly surreal, kind of indescribable. I see it, I touch it, I feel pain at the actual sight and the sight that’s gone. It is odd to feel the finger that isn’t there but not the one that is. So I let myself experience it all. Every time. And I breathe. I breathe in hope. 

The art of reclaiming myself during a deeply felt loss is seeking my complete, unconditional surrender. It requires something of me, which is to remain curious, grow toward understanding and become a loving partner with my body, as it works its magic to render me whole again. Respecting the value of  grief and loss has been an interesting road. Ultimately, this is about coming to terms with me, without condition or judgement, accepting every emotion I’m going through as equally important and valid, every weakness, every fear, every bit of strength, fortitude and resilience. Visualization has helped me imagine myself as malleable, everything flowing through me, no matter how uncomfortable, feeling like one finger has sympathy for the other and wants to restore it. In those moments when the pain is too intense, I lay my left hand over my l right and invite the energy to move freely through me. I know that my body is a majestic vessel with a powerful purpose, and with time and synergy, it will heal itself. I also know, humbly and without doubt, there is beauty in both the darkness and the light and this process of healing has been both for me. Eventually, I will gift this little half size digit of mine with an appropriate name and a badass tattoo, to honor the sacrifice that it made for my body, and represent the gratitude I feel for everything it’s meant to me over a lifetime. 

The truth that rises to the surface for me is that even when it’s hard to hear, everything we need is inside of us, a lesson I learn again and again. The power of our minds and how our bodies can adapt to change continues to amaze me. I was in a place emotionally that I’ve never been before, unable to find my center, yet here I am now, on the other side of it, expanding my ability to grow, my gratitude intact. Everything ebbs and flows, the joyful and the difficult. 

As I journeyed through the last two weeks, unsettled and uncertain, I came to know that this was never just about losing a partial finger, but about all those little losses I have felt over the years since I got this illness. All those things that chipped away at me, those things I thought were part of my identity, that I have since come to recognize as a lie. This was about practicing self-love on a profoundly meaningful level, finding my absolute worth at my core. I am now and will always be so much more than any one thing that is taken from me.