I wrote about this a while ago. But I think I was so focused on writing it for other people, that I subconsciously censored myself. This time, I will write it for myself.
The people I surround myself with are kind, understanding, and polite. So of course, none of them would ever dare to ask me about the scars that I have, even though my scars are far from invisible and they may have always wondered. I am grateful because I know they all care about me. But at the same time, I am so desperate to talk about them. I want someone to ask me, and give me that chance to talk about my experience, without holding anything back.
In 2002, when this car accident happened, my problem was the complete opposite. Elementary school kids couldn't care less about being conscientious and polite. As soon as I came back to school, I got so many questions about the scars I had, and about why I looked so different, and about how I got them, and about if they'll ever go away, and about if they hurt when I got them, and about if they still hurt now, and so on. And I hated it, because it was a constant reminder of how different I looked from everyone else. I just wanted every to shut up, and move on like everything was normal.
My problem then was that kids had no filter, but my problem now is that that's all adults have.
I remember about 95% of the details from the accident, but whenever someone does inquire about them (if they ever do), I only mention the "main" points. I do this out of fear that if I say too much, it will make them uncomfortable, or they may look at me differently.
No one wants to know how I woke up with glass scattered everywhere and blood on my hands and legs. Or how I had thought my mother was dead when she was unconscious in the front seat, with her mouth hanging open and eyes closed. Or how I, a 7-year-old kid, kept crying out for my mom while emergency services lead me out of the car. Or how I was put in a neck brace and airlifted out of the scene, only knowing this because I could feel the brace around my neck and could feel my ears pop. Or how I was stripped of my clothes on the examining table and I only realized that I was hurt when someone touched my face and I cried out in pain. Or how I woke up in a hospital bed with my dad sitting next to me, crying.
Or maybe I'm scared that if I say these details out loud, there could be a chance of something terrible happening again. Fear is a funny thing.
I hope that by writing these details down, I can find a loophole to that fear. I hope I can take ownership of what happened and further accept it. That doesn't mean I'm happy it happened. Or that it didn't hurt.
But I know that I would not be the strong woman that I am today without it.
The people I surround myself with are kind, understanding, and polite. So of course, none of them would ever dare to ask me about the scars that I have, even though my scars are far from invisible and they may have always wondered. I am grateful because I know they all care about me. But at the same time, I am so desperate to talk about them. I want someone to ask me, and give me that chance to talk about my experience, without holding anything back.
In 2002, when this car accident happened, my problem was the complete opposite. Elementary school kids couldn't care less about being conscientious and polite. As soon as I came back to school, I got so many questions about the scars I had, and about why I looked so different, and about how I got them, and about if they'll ever go away, and about if they hurt when I got them, and about if they still hurt now, and so on. And I hated it, because it was a constant reminder of how different I looked from everyone else. I just wanted every to shut up, and move on like everything was normal.
My problem then was that kids had no filter, but my problem now is that that's all adults have.
I remember about 95% of the details from the accident, but whenever someone does inquire about them (if they ever do), I only mention the "main" points. I do this out of fear that if I say too much, it will make them uncomfortable, or they may look at me differently.
No one wants to know how I woke up with glass scattered everywhere and blood on my hands and legs. Or how I had thought my mother was dead when she was unconscious in the front seat, with her mouth hanging open and eyes closed. Or how I, a 7-year-old kid, kept crying out for my mom while emergency services lead me out of the car. Or how I was put in a neck brace and airlifted out of the scene, only knowing this because I could feel the brace around my neck and could feel my ears pop. Or how I was stripped of my clothes on the examining table and I only realized that I was hurt when someone touched my face and I cried out in pain. Or how I woke up in a hospital bed with my dad sitting next to me, crying.
Or maybe I'm scared that if I say these details out loud, there could be a chance of something terrible happening again. Fear is a funny thing.
I hope that by writing these details down, I can find a loophole to that fear. I hope I can take ownership of what happened and further accept it. That doesn't mean I'm happy it happened. Or that it didn't hurt.
But I know that I would not be the strong woman that I am today without it.
No comments:
Post a Comment