Bloodletting
Do we ever truly heal from certain traumas in our lives?
When I was a senior in high school, my beloved chorus teacher, Dr. Susan Cotton, developed breast cancer, which she had seven years prior and had been in remission since that time. She was such a brave woman, having lost one breast. And within the span of my first semester, she lost all her hair. She would conduct class without her wig, wearing this hilarious dragon cap with a tail that hung down her back. It would swing whenever she nodded her head from behind the piano. I loved her so much; she was an inspiration for both my love of music as well as teaching.
During winter break, my mother and I had visited Dr. Cotton. She had become very ill, and her mother and her teenage daughter were taking care of her. Most of the seniors in chorus had gotten to know Dr. Cotton's mother from the previous year. Mum, she was called, and she was the sweetest woman. I remember Mum talking to my mother while I hugged Dr. Cotton. My memories of this visit are awash in whites and grays, the color stricken from my mind. Instead, these memories are colored with intense feelings of fear and sadness and the smell of medicine in the air.
January of 2000, on a very cold and cloudy day right before we returned to school, the phone rang in the early afternoon. And I knew. I just KNEW. The call was from another chorus student, one with whom I was very close, Vicki. I told Mom to answer it. And when she looked at me and started crying, it was all I could do to find a chair instead of the floor.
We sang at her funeral, the select senior womens ensemble called Camarata. We sang "Goodnight, My Angel" from the balcony in the back, of the church, and god, if that wasn't one of the hardest things I've ever done. We fell onto each other as the song ended, and I saw my mother crying. It was the first time that I ever verbally sobbed. During final exams, the same group of senior girls visited her grave site. We circled the new grass around Dr. Cotton and sang our songs to her. Then, we sat in silence for awhile.
They say that time heals all wounds, but I know different. Over nine years later, if I hear that Billy Joel song, if I see a picture of her daughter, or if something randomly takes my meandering thoughts back to Dr. Cotton, I still cry. Not a couple of tears that fling carelessly from my eyes, but a handful of heavy sobs followed by an hour of a stuffy nose and sad nostalgia.
So, no, some things stay with you. Certainly, they vary in length of time, but I am starting to see that a particular few will always be there, almost like a psychological cancer.
I would be able to accept this part of life, but I can't. You see, Dr. Cotton's abrupt and traumatic death was not intentional. She never meant to wither and die in front of her many adoring students.
But, there are some that are intentional. That other human beings did to you to cause a trauma to your psyche that might never heal. And those are the worst kind, aren't they, because not only are these traumas horrible, like all others are, but also because you know they were purposefully done to you. At the time, you might not have seen it, but now, five years later, the wound reopens randomly, and you're blindsided to the point of debilitation.
I'm sitting on my bed right now. No other lights but the bluish glare of the computer screen. Hunched over the keys while I type and occasionally wiping at my nose with my sleeve. I'm sitting in my room with the fan cooling my hot face, the dried trails of wetness on my cheeks uncomfortably stiff as I crinkle my face and try to keep my emotions in check. I'm sitting here, thinking about Dr. Cotton and other traumas in my life that might never fade, reading my small book of memorable quotes to remind myself how to be strong, of my ideals. How I have built myself as a fortress against all threats, but realizing that my fortress is vulnerable to internal attacks.
I'm sitting here, in the aftermath of a sudden revelation that I'm permanently damaged goods, that someone in my past left an indelible bruise on my heart--one of many--that I have just tonight realized still existed and hurt me so much. That after three years of handling all the lingering wounds and believing to be completely healed for two years, the injury has blossomed upon my soul once more, bleeding internally and leaking out through my eyes in this frustrating nonstop flow of pain I rationally know I should not be feeling anymore from this person who intentionally hurt me.
I've felt all the other wounds, wrapped them, medicated them, and dealt with them in turn. But it seems that some stay hidden away to be discovered on some other day. These are the most malicious and cruel; these are the ones made my people you once believed you loved. And when it's years later, and your suffused with happiness, nothing in your life could be better, it's then the virus returns from the twists of your mind and multiples, replicates, and you can hardly talk through it this time to heal the problem, can't work it out in your head until the pain subsides like it used to do so quickly back then.
Now it's hours later after the devastating reappearance, and my purge has cleared the pus from the wound. A long, deep sleep, and some mild escapism should lend to the healing, and in the morning, I won't feel a thing. In fact, I'll regard all this as weakness and unnecessary, that I'm strong, remember? I am a fortress. I am loved and happy and content in my life.
But I'm sitting here, writing this, as a reminder. Because I now have realized that somewhere in the gray space of my mind exists a quiet cell, created by someone else once upon a time, floating amid the sparks and chaos, kinetic energy just waiting for the opportune moment to rapidly reproduce, and, if only briefly, take over my existence and control me once more.
I will never forget again. And I will remember not only for myself, but also for the very few people whom I love most in the world, because they have their cruel human-inflicted traumas, too, and I will be there for them, understanding their pain. I will prevent suffering. I will protect. I will ruthlessly kill their rogue psyche cells with my radiation therapy.
When I was a senior in high school, my beloved chorus teacher, Dr. Susan Cotton, developed breast cancer, which she had seven years prior and had been in remission since that time. She was such a brave woman, having lost one breast. And within the span of my first semester, she lost all her hair. She would conduct class without her wig, wearing this hilarious dragon cap with a tail that hung down her back. It would swing whenever she nodded her head from behind the piano. I loved her so much; she was an inspiration for both my love of music as well as teaching.
During winter break, my mother and I had visited Dr. Cotton. She had become very ill, and her mother and her teenage daughter were taking care of her. Most of the seniors in chorus had gotten to know Dr. Cotton's mother from the previous year. Mum, she was called, and she was the sweetest woman. I remember Mum talking to my mother while I hugged Dr. Cotton. My memories of this visit are awash in whites and grays, the color stricken from my mind. Instead, these memories are colored with intense feelings of fear and sadness and the smell of medicine in the air.
January of 2000, on a very cold and cloudy day right before we returned to school, the phone rang in the early afternoon. And I knew. I just KNEW. The call was from another chorus student, one with whom I was very close, Vicki. I told Mom to answer it. And when she looked at me and started crying, it was all I could do to find a chair instead of the floor.
We sang at her funeral, the select senior womens ensemble called Camarata. We sang "Goodnight, My Angel" from the balcony in the back, of the church, and god, if that wasn't one of the hardest things I've ever done. We fell onto each other as the song ended, and I saw my mother crying. It was the first time that I ever verbally sobbed. During final exams, the same group of senior girls visited her grave site. We circled the new grass around Dr. Cotton and sang our songs to her. Then, we sat in silence for awhile.
They say that time heals all wounds, but I know different. Over nine years later, if I hear that Billy Joel song, if I see a picture of her daughter, or if something randomly takes my meandering thoughts back to Dr. Cotton, I still cry. Not a couple of tears that fling carelessly from my eyes, but a handful of heavy sobs followed by an hour of a stuffy nose and sad nostalgia.
So, no, some things stay with you. Certainly, they vary in length of time, but I am starting to see that a particular few will always be there, almost like a psychological cancer.
I would be able to accept this part of life, but I can't. You see, Dr. Cotton's abrupt and traumatic death was not intentional. She never meant to wither and die in front of her many adoring students.
But, there are some that are intentional. That other human beings did to you to cause a trauma to your psyche that might never heal. And those are the worst kind, aren't they, because not only are these traumas horrible, like all others are, but also because you know they were purposefully done to you. At the time, you might not have seen it, but now, five years later, the wound reopens randomly, and you're blindsided to the point of debilitation.
I'm sitting on my bed right now. No other lights but the bluish glare of the computer screen. Hunched over the keys while I type and occasionally wiping at my nose with my sleeve. I'm sitting in my room with the fan cooling my hot face, the dried trails of wetness on my cheeks uncomfortably stiff as I crinkle my face and try to keep my emotions in check. I'm sitting here, thinking about Dr. Cotton and other traumas in my life that might never fade, reading my small book of memorable quotes to remind myself how to be strong, of my ideals. How I have built myself as a fortress against all threats, but realizing that my fortress is vulnerable to internal attacks.
I'm sitting here, in the aftermath of a sudden revelation that I'm permanently damaged goods, that someone in my past left an indelible bruise on my heart--one of many--that I have just tonight realized still existed and hurt me so much. That after three years of handling all the lingering wounds and believing to be completely healed for two years, the injury has blossomed upon my soul once more, bleeding internally and leaking out through my eyes in this frustrating nonstop flow of pain I rationally know I should not be feeling anymore from this person who intentionally hurt me.
I've felt all the other wounds, wrapped them, medicated them, and dealt with them in turn. But it seems that some stay hidden away to be discovered on some other day. These are the most malicious and cruel; these are the ones made my people you once believed you loved. And when it's years later, and your suffused with happiness, nothing in your life could be better, it's then the virus returns from the twists of your mind and multiples, replicates, and you can hardly talk through it this time to heal the problem, can't work it out in your head until the pain subsides like it used to do so quickly back then.
Now it's hours later after the devastating reappearance, and my purge has cleared the pus from the wound. A long, deep sleep, and some mild escapism should lend to the healing, and in the morning, I won't feel a thing. In fact, I'll regard all this as weakness and unnecessary, that I'm strong, remember? I am a fortress. I am loved and happy and content in my life.
But I'm sitting here, writing this, as a reminder. Because I now have realized that somewhere in the gray space of my mind exists a quiet cell, created by someone else once upon a time, floating amid the sparks and chaos, kinetic energy just waiting for the opportune moment to rapidly reproduce, and, if only briefly, take over my existence and control me once more.
I will never forget again. And I will remember not only for myself, but also for the very few people whom I love most in the world, because they have their cruel human-inflicted traumas, too, and I will be there for them, understanding their pain. I will prevent suffering. I will protect. I will ruthlessly kill their rogue psyche cells with my radiation therapy.