I had to rebuild my self after I cut off my communication with my father. Sitting in a therapist’s office telling my dad that I would not be seeing him or talking to him starting immediately, I felt myself in that moment have the most epic battle of self I’ve had yet. The self I knew very well and merely tolerated was pulled toward his tears and his “ill do anything”s, while the self that was still a small seedling knew these cries weren’t rooted in love but in narcissistic selfishness. After I stepped out of the world where I was a parent of my parent, a “superhero” who only knew loneliness and dedicated every second to fixing the impossible, I had no idea what to do with my life, how to continue. I became really interested in finding who I was, who I am and who I want to be. It was in this discovery of self that the rebuilding occurred. I knew me, I knew who my people were, I knew love. With that knowledge alone, one can move mountains.
The Jenga blocks of my life have recently spilled over after leaning for some time. The sound was deafening like a clap of thunder in the night. The realization that I am no longer looking up pauses the game. My downcast eyes survey the scattered pieces of smooth wood that hold possibilities. A will to pick up one block makes it heavier than it should be. Starting over. Starting. Over. Those words are at opposition in my mind. Choosing to play another round, I arrange a handful of blocks in an unfamiliar way. A newer version of myself that is allowed to adjust when needed. A steady hand guided by my rules that aims to make the foundation stronger than before. After carefully placing the rest of the pieces, an epiphany stops it all. I have already won and it’s not over. Looking up, I rise to my feet and move on with my day. The game is left there as a reminder of the moment I believed I could make it better. The instructions now read: Make the game your own.
Sometimes it's hard to imagine our bodies without our mammary glands. Chemotherapy and surgery for breast cancer often mean that we lose two of our main attractions: our hair and our breasts. Even our eyelashes disappear! How do you dress up for a date after that?
After a right mastectomy, I’m now asymmetrical with garment challenges, but I'm keeping it as simple as I can. I'm figuring out my figure. When my eight-inch incision healed, I didn’t wish to have my breast reconstructed. Instead, I went to a lingerie department so I could select a prescribed breast, covered by insurance as "medical equipment." My removed body part weighed a pound and a half and the prosthesis weighs about the same. Sometimes I wear it and sometimes I don’t. I can accept that I’m now flat on one side.
What I’d like to see are more representations of women and our wounds, our naked truth. Where are the images of surgery survivors and one-mammary mermaids? I feel a need to see my scarred body represented. Let's milk the myths of warrior women, such as the one-breasted Amazons. As the story goes, they removed their right breasts to be better archers. Pulling their bowstrings taut against their smooth chests, they released the string with full freedom of intent into the world, with no impediments. Like Amazon warriors, we are not diminished. Our aim is more true and direct, as are our words. The fear that rides along as cancer's sidekick is felled by those arrows, those truths.
I really enjoyed this prompt, thank you Erin Khar. It opened a whole new essay for me, but I'd like to share just an excerpt here. This is about recovering from a serious knee injury at age 16, which altered my relationship to dance and therefore the course of my active life and identity. I look forward to further working the piece over the coming weeks, so would be grateful for any feedback (as always).
Over the years I have had to modify or abstain from activity that seems common for an active person. I have had to return to doctors after sustaining minor, related injuries, most of which were the result of my own neglect. In the last 8 years, I have learned to account for my body’s natural aging process, too. I have been fortunate to receive care at excellent institutions - and to understand that a fix just doesn’t exist. At one point, the recommendation to finally have surgery even prompted a cross-country move to be near the right facility - only to be told that the proposed surgery might do more harm than good for someone of my relatively young age. Because even the best surgery does not return us to our normal, it gives us a different place from which to manage our pain. And so, my inner dialogue with my body has become the highest authority. I am alert to my body’s changing needs in an ever-more astute way, so much that it is now less of a dialogue and more of a part of the way I breathe, walk and sleep. Taking time to redraw the boundaries of my physical maintenance, activity threshold and athletic aspirations based on new knowledge of my physical construct, changing hormones, and even diet, is not a chore. It’s part of noticing time, and honoring the body that holds my self.
Others’ awareness of my knee is now, often, more visible than my own. Family and friends who knew me during or shortly after the injury regularly ask, “Now, how’s the knee?” I have often forgotten that it’s something to talk about, even wonder that they remember or care. It has been 17 years since my injury, and in that time I have sustained other injuries, noticed other physical changes, experience new evolutions that require similar patience and attention. And I have been able to deliver, having become a small expert on myself over all these years. Not only have I re-built my physical self around the evolving needs of at least one joint, I have also re-built my identity around the honest knowledge of my limits and the satisfaction of respecting them without regret.
I had to rebuild my self after I cut off my communication with my father. Sitting in a therapist’s office telling my dad that I would not be seeing him or talking to him starting immediately, I felt myself in that moment have the most epic battle of self I’ve had yet. The self I knew very well and merely tolerated was pulled toward his tears and his “ill do anything”s, while the self that was still a small seedling knew these cries weren’t rooted in love but in narcissistic selfishness. After I stepped out of the world where I was a parent of my parent, a “superhero” who only knew loneliness and dedicated every second to fixing the impossible, I had no idea what to do with my life, how to continue. I became really interested in finding who I was, who I am and who I want to be. It was in this discovery of self that the rebuilding occurred. I knew me, I knew who my people were, I knew love. With that knowledge alone, one can move mountains.
The Jenga blocks of my life have recently spilled over after leaning for some time. The sound was deafening like a clap of thunder in the night. The realization that I am no longer looking up pauses the game. My downcast eyes survey the scattered pieces of smooth wood that hold possibilities. A will to pick up one block makes it heavier than it should be. Starting over. Starting. Over. Those words are at opposition in my mind. Choosing to play another round, I arrange a handful of blocks in an unfamiliar way. A newer version of myself that is allowed to adjust when needed. A steady hand guided by my rules that aims to make the foundation stronger than before. After carefully placing the rest of the pieces, an epiphany stops it all. I have already won and it’s not over. Looking up, I rise to my feet and move on with my day. The game is left there as a reminder of the moment I believed I could make it better. The instructions now read: Make the game your own.
BECOMING WHOLE AGAIN (Prompt 162: On Rebuilding)
Sometimes it's hard to imagine our bodies without our mammary glands. Chemotherapy and surgery for breast cancer often mean that we lose two of our main attractions: our hair and our breasts. Even our eyelashes disappear! How do you dress up for a date after that?
After a right mastectomy, I’m now asymmetrical with garment challenges, but I'm keeping it as simple as I can. I'm figuring out my figure. When my eight-inch incision healed, I didn’t wish to have my breast reconstructed. Instead, I went to a lingerie department so I could select a prescribed breast, covered by insurance as "medical equipment." My removed body part weighed a pound and a half and the prosthesis weighs about the same. Sometimes I wear it and sometimes I don’t. I can accept that I’m now flat on one side.
What I’d like to see are more representations of women and our wounds, our naked truth. Where are the images of surgery survivors and one-mammary mermaids? I feel a need to see my scarred body represented. Let's milk the myths of warrior women, such as the one-breasted Amazons. As the story goes, they removed their right breasts to be better archers. Pulling their bowstrings taut against their smooth chests, they released the string with full freedom of intent into the world, with no impediments. Like Amazon warriors, we are not diminished. Our aim is more true and direct, as are our words. The fear that rides along as cancer's sidekick is felled by those arrows, those truths.
I am whole the way I am.
I really enjoyed this prompt, thank you Erin Khar. It opened a whole new essay for me, but I'd like to share just an excerpt here. This is about recovering from a serious knee injury at age 16, which altered my relationship to dance and therefore the course of my active life and identity. I look forward to further working the piece over the coming weeks, so would be grateful for any feedback (as always).
Over the years I have had to modify or abstain from activity that seems common for an active person. I have had to return to doctors after sustaining minor, related injuries, most of which were the result of my own neglect. In the last 8 years, I have learned to account for my body’s natural aging process, too. I have been fortunate to receive care at excellent institutions - and to understand that a fix just doesn’t exist. At one point, the recommendation to finally have surgery even prompted a cross-country move to be near the right facility - only to be told that the proposed surgery might do more harm than good for someone of my relatively young age. Because even the best surgery does not return us to our normal, it gives us a different place from which to manage our pain. And so, my inner dialogue with my body has become the highest authority. I am alert to my body’s changing needs in an ever-more astute way, so much that it is now less of a dialogue and more of a part of the way I breathe, walk and sleep. Taking time to redraw the boundaries of my physical maintenance, activity threshold and athletic aspirations based on new knowledge of my physical construct, changing hormones, and even diet, is not a chore. It’s part of noticing time, and honoring the body that holds my self.
Others’ awareness of my knee is now, often, more visible than my own. Family and friends who knew me during or shortly after the injury regularly ask, “Now, how’s the knee?” I have often forgotten that it’s something to talk about, even wonder that they remember or care. It has been 17 years since my injury, and in that time I have sustained other injuries, noticed other physical changes, experience new evolutions that require similar patience and attention. And I have been able to deliver, having become a small expert on myself over all these years. Not only have I re-built my physical self around the evolving needs of at least one joint, I have also re-built my identity around the honest knowledge of my limits and the satisfaction of respecting them without regret.