And then the scar rips off

I was talking with my friend V recently about some experiences we have in common. Both she and I know about restraining orders, control freaks, liars, losing ourselves, finding our way back, healing. For me, we’re talking ancient history, padded shoulders and puffy hair days. Her story is more recent, within this century. 

Hours before our talk, something had come up that triggered reminders of the duplicity and danger V had survived. As she spoke about this to me, V’s voice veered from even to anxious to shrill. She started gesticulating wildly. Her eyes got teary. I, on the other hand, was calm, reserved even. I nodded as she spoke about what we both know to be true, that there are some scary dangerous nutcases out there, that the court system is flawed, that keeping yourself and your kids safe takes guts and that some of your worst enemies are the friends in whom you confide, who come back at you with, “How could you allow this to happen?” and never look at you the same again, though if you’re healthy you’ve realized by then that it wasn’t really friendship and so you haven’t lost much. 

I watched my friend as the anger took over.  Her eyes were wide. Her hands, hatchets almost, slashed the air. We talked, well I talked while she sort of yelled, about how those false friends usually find out the hard way that the world is full of sociopath spouses and other damaged supposed loved ones who will lie, cheat, break hearts and sometimes other body parts in order to get what their narcissistic brains and bodies crave.  

At one point I said that I understood her emotions. I said that for about ten years I was much like her. That full out response, the fury, followed by guilt, destructive self-talk, nightmares for days, would get set off at the oddest times: the tone of a radio voice, a headline in the news, conversation snippets over heard in the supermarket. There are still certain movies I can’t watch, I said. Certain kinds of reading matter I have to avoid.  I assured her that things will just keep getting better. Each day is easier than the next. 

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but reflect on how much I’d changed since the early ‘90s.  How much I’d accomplished. How stronger, wiser, more compassionate I’d become. How detached I was able to be. How happy I’d become. 

I had a medical procedure scheduled for this morning. The doctor went over some last minute details then asked me about my running. She’s a half-marathoner so she semi gets me. I told her I’d just become a Marathon Maniac, and talked about the two marathons I ran in two weeks that got me qualified. She was impressed, and complimented me on my strength, then told me I was a nut. 

I laughed back at her and told her she was only half crazy because she only ran half marathons.  We bantered back and forth like this for a bit. I was feeling a little more relaxed about the procedure, which was going to be uncomfortable but nothing, the doc assured me, I wouldn’t be able to handle. 

As she began, I tried to focus my attention on the medical student who stood at my right side. The doc had said the student would hold my hand if I wanted. 

“I just ran two marathons in two weeks. I can handle this,” I said. I smiled at the student.

The doc began and I felt myself tense at her touch.

“Relax,” she said. She continued working.

I tried some deep breaths, but just froze up more.

“You need to relax,” she said.

I yelled I can’t, and jumped up screaming for her to stop, stop right now.  She did. I could tell she was startled by my reaction. I was too.

I wiped my nose and eyes with my arm. The student handed me a box of tissues. The doc told me to calm down. I blew my nose and told her to stop saying that because it was just making me angrier. She nodded and talked about what to do next. She said we’d reschedule the procedure in the hospital, with me under anesthesia.

I said I felt like an idiot, like a weakling, because I couldn’t handle what should have been an uncomfortable but fairly simple procedure. She reminded me I was a Marathon Maniac and could handle anything.  

“Not this,” I said.

It wasn’t until I was in the car that it hit me.  It was the way she touched combined with a slight switch in tone when she told me to relax, a word I’d heard so many times earlier in my life, as I was being lied to, dismissed, redirected, controlled.  One minute I was fine. The next, all that scar tissue had ripped right off, and I was back in a time when my life was hell. 

I’d told the truth when I told my friend that things do get better. I wrote this to remind myself and others that sometimes we still fall apart too. And that’s okay. It’s all part of the process. 

Fall seven. Rise eight. Time for a run. Life is good. It truly is. I hope it’s good for you too.