It’s just a few minutes after six o’clock in the morning.
I was about to go back to bed just now. In fact, I had already climbed into bed when my soul nudged my brain, and pushed me back out of bed to write about this.
Last night I had one of my squiglets of a dream. I had gone to Peru, or some South American place, and was sitting in a doctor’s office, or at least in a desk behind where a doctor was seated at her desk… while she was talking to someone else.
I knew that by my just sitting there, that sooner or later she would be bound to turn to her left… and see me sitting behind her… quietly.
Finally she turned, saw me, and… seeing the acne damage and scarring on my face… gently reached out her hand to my face, and said… more in her gestures than her voice… “here, my dear… let me take a look at you.”
Her gentle hands reached my face… touched it, and as her fingers brushed oh so caringly across my cheeks… she said… “oh, my child… .”
It turns out she was a dermatologist… and somehow I found my way… going several thousand miles to her office in Peru.
Her kindness was obvious. But then came what I dreaded. “Honey, I think it’s best to just leave you as you are.”
Her eyes were so full of regret. So full of sorrow.
I could say that my heart sank. But it didn’t. It was more a feeling of “chagrin.” Of resignation. I was me. I was as I had become. I was as I always would be.
So, as I was lying in bed just now… so tired and wanting to go back to sleep… my body fought, or perhaps tussled with my psyche, my soul and my brain… to go back to sleep… but I could not. So I got back up and wrote.
Is this the trauma that has driven, or shackled my life ? Is this what tried to shape my life, and what I have been trying to somehow either overcome, or at least learn to live with… until that peaceful day came when the hurt was no more ?
I don’t know. Or perhaps I just think I don’t know. Or do I ?
Is my terror… my personal distaste or total turn-off… what has brought me here ? In many ways it appears to be so.
Perhaps I have just now thought of, and added, a fourth “defining moment” to the first three… of the little girl screaming at me at fifteen, of my running out of Bills after trying on a raincoat and seeing myself in the mirror, and then listening to the phone-tapped conversations between Jackie and that bastard ?
The day in the hospital after my acne surgery. My facial sanding. The day after the sanding-disk removed the top two layers of my facial skin. I remember when I told Jackie and fuck-face that I really didn’t feel any pain, and then somehow slowly and hesitatingly got up from my hospital bed to take a look at my totally gauze-wrapped face in the mirror… and seeing the bandages thoroughly soaked in blood staring back at me from inside the mirror.
I fainted. I went down to the floor. I didn’t totally lose consciousness… and somehow got back into bed. Maybe with help from some of the nurses, I don’t remember.
All of this came back to me… or came to me just now as a coalesced thought… perhaps as another piece of the Post Traumatic Stress that has been a partner to me for perhaps the last fifty-three years. Perhaps…