Every so often I get contemplative. I think about things. I often look inward and try to ingest what I see in a constructive way. Doesn’t always happen like that but my intent is usually good.
Before I was sick I used to have a lot of self-doubt. I mean, I still have some, but I have proven to myself thus far I can accomplish almost anything I set my mind to. Sometimes that little voice finds its way back to my ear and whispers to me that I can’t. I’m not good enough; I’m not as smart as I think I am. I am less than. It’s an awful yet real feeling. As I’ve gotten older and acquired a new perspective on this thing I have called a life, I can stop and listen to those whispers in my mind and realize them for what they are. Fear.
I’ve gotten into this mindset to bring myself a dose a happy reality. When I feel crappy about myself, for whatever reason, I sit back and think, “What was I like five years ago?” The answer usually gives me pause. It makes me grateful for who I am and the continuous journey I am taking growing into the person I am to become. It’s the little things I notice. Whenever I look down at my hands now, I find myself smiling. Not just because I have my mothers lovely, tiny, hands but because they are very different hands than the ones I had in my younger years. My mother used to say, “The true signs of a woman’s age and happiness are in her hands.” She believed that you could tell a lot about a woman by looking at her hands. I always found that intriguing. Every time I meet a woman or am around women I know, the second thing I always take note of is her hands. The first is her shoes. My mom could tell a lot by hands, I can by shoes.
After my dad died I developed a lot of bad habits. Not aware of their progression as I got older, they just seemed to be part of me. They were really just coping mechanisms for me to deal with the constant self-doubt and grief I spend most of my life repressing. One of my earliest vice’s was nail biting. My mother hated it. Seeing as hands were such a reflection of a woman to her, now I totally understand why. But I would always find myself doing it for no apparent reason. I didn’t bite my nails I annihilated them. I don’t even think I had nail beds from nine to fifteen years old. I would chew my cuticles and fingers bloody, and keep on going. As I got older, late college through mid twenties, I got on the fake nail bandwagon. I would get these awful acrylic tips placed on my tiny fingers. They were practically shellacked on with cement and painted to make my hands look “normal and feminine”. I thought my hands looked nice with them. After awhile I got tired of spending the money (which I usually didn’t have) to get them done and I hated that they made my natural nails so frail and sickly looking when they came off. Which of course was ironic seeing as my fingers were normally chewed down to the point my hands looked like my fingertips had been hacked off with a machete. So after being on the fake nail bandwagon I gave them up and hoped my nails would grow back normal someday, (of course if I could keep them out of my mouth).
Another bad habit I developed was twirling, pulling, and chewing on my hair. I’ve had pretty long hair most of my life and I think that is partly because I liked to hide beneath it and keeping it long made it easy enough to fuck with when I got nervous. The other upside is that I have nice hair, a trait of my genetic makeup (of one of the few good ones I might add). I always got compliments on my hair, still do actually, although it is not as lustrous as it was when I was younger, it’s still pretty nice because I do very little to it.
I was a picker too. I’d create a volcanic flesh crater from the tiniest of blemish on my skin. Didn’t matter where it was. I have my mother’s great skin so its not like I went through a terrible teenage acne phase but I was neurotic about any imperfections in my skin aside from my birthmarks and freckle spots, which I actually liked because I have a lot of the same spots my dad had.
By the time my mother died, I had already cultivated a fabulous arsenal of unpleasant coping mechanisms, which manifested into some really icky habits. Beauty of it all was no one really knew about any of them. I wasn’t some one who bit my nails, or fussed with my hair in public. I certainly didn’t pick my skin to the point of almost scarring it if front of other people either. No, around my friends, classmates, and colleagues I was the picture of calm cool confidence.
I am an outwardly open person. I tried to always be approachable and open to new people and new situations. Perhaps that’s why others saw me as confident.
My mother’s death made me realize that I needed more than the shit I was doing to cope. I was in a deep hole. I was swallowed up by my sadness and grief. I lived in that cloudy haze of grief for many, many years.
During my college years I was under a lot of stress. Betweens the responsibility of going to school full-time to make something of myself, working full-time to pay for said education, and taking the only hand in my mother’s care and well being while her health deteriorated was a handful for a nineteen year old girl. I was my mothers medical POA (Power of Attorney) and primary decision maker in all her financial and health matters. It was my job to be sure she was ok while I went to school and worked. Looking back I did my best and really don’t think I could have done any more than I did. Perhaps if I had help things may have been a little different, but probably not too much.
After my mother died the world changed for me. It was quiet. Things ceased. I had already graduated from college and was only working one job. Life seemed slow. And extremely lonely. The guilt and loneliness became almost unbearable. My mother died in a nursing home, alone in the middle of the night. I, to this day, am devastated I was not by her side, comforting her. Holding her hand, telling her I loved her. When my dad died, it was like a scene from the Godfather. No joke. Everyone was there; my mother, my siblings, my aunts and uncles. All gathered around my father’s bed as if to pay homage to him in his final moments. But not my mom. She died alone. She died alone because I was at an overnight babysitting gig and I wasn’t there with her. I’d spent almost fifteen years working on forgiving myself for my absence that night. The first few years were the toughest. I had to get tougher and meaner with myself to cope.
I can’t really remember when I first did it, but I remember the feeling.
I had nightmares. I felt lonely. I felt like the last person on earth who would ever love me was gone forever. Soon my thoughts of worthlessness and self-loathing became constant. With my mom gone there was no one to counteract them. Although I never allowed them to surface outside of myself, they were very much there. When the nail biting, hair pulling, and skin picking became all but useless to calm me and find me any peace I found myself at a loss. I thought of suicide. But not because I wanted to be dead. I simply wanted to be reunited with the two people who I loved most, my parents. In all my grief I knew suicidal thoughts were just stupid. Also the fact I grew up Catholic haunted me a bit. What if I did off myself and ended up alone in a more miserable fucking place? Well hell that would suck.
Now, I know what a lot of you might be thinking right about now. “She needed therapy.” No, I didn’t. And I don’t. I am and always have been ridiculously self-aware. I know my shit. I don’t need to pay some fucknut $150 an hour to listen to my problems because he/she can’t cope with their own. I know my issues well. Granted, the way I chose to deal with them wasn’t always ideal, but I knew they were there. And that was more than half the battle.
Pacing around my apartment in the middle of the night, a few months after my mom died, I was having a bout of really horrible insomnia. I either slept for days on end or went weeks literally without rest of any kind. It was awful. My grief wouldn’t let me be. Looking back I think the absolute worst part of it all was that I was alone in it. We didn’t grieve my mother as a family. My relationship with my mom was very different than the one she had with my siblings. I can’t speak to it because I wasn’t around for most of it, but I damn well know it was different. And that loneliness stemmed from being alone in my grief. Anyhow, I was pacing around my apartment and finally slumped to the floor of my bedroom almost surrendering to the insomnia. There was no sense in trying to make myself tired. Then I remember just leaning my head back and unintentionally tapping it against the wall. I leaned back just a hair too hard and it hurt when I hit it.
It was like a light bulb went on.
I wanted my mind to stop. I wanted a break from feeling so god damn bad. I wanted to sleep. In that moment, I pulled my head forward and threw it back again, this time harder than the last. Not sure how long it took, but I banged my head against the wall with precision and purpose until I knocked myself out cold.
When I awoke several hours later, it was if I had discovered a new drug. I’d probably given myself handfuls of concussions over those subsequent years. It made me feel better and I could justify it away telling myself that I got injured worse playing sports or in the mosh pit at concerts. Plus, unlike my knarly fingertips, there was no trace of this behavior to the naked eye. Over time this destructive, yet comforting, behavior became my “go to” method when I wanted to escape my mind’s negativity. The nail biting, hair twirling, and skin picking all fell to the wayside.
I eventually stopped because my life had gotten better. I got married. I began a business. I felt loved and had purpose. Although I had done it for years, I allowed myself a reprieve from knocking the shit out of myself regularly. The need to punish myself had begun to subside. Not too mention I knew at some point my luck could run out and I may actually hurt myself.
While I was recovering from the stroke I nonchalantly asked my neurologist if the brain clots could have been cause from prior head trauma. Even though it had been almost eight years since I stopped the literal head banging, I had to ask. He assured me that it was not. The hormone imbalance in my body was what caused my blood to hyper coagulate, hence causing the clots.
When I look down at my hands today, I smile. I have my mom’s petite, slender hands with lovely natural, healthy looking nails which I never paint. I love the look if them natural. I actually have a few wrinkles on my hands and due to weight loss you can see my veins. And although my nails aren’t perfect, they are lovely even if they are uneven because one or two will break when they get long. My hair is still long and only gets my fingers or a brush run through it regularly. I admire my grays as they poke out of my dark brown locks as if to stand at attention so I will be sure to see them. Much to my pleasure my head is still attached, all in one piece. It’s hard as ever but right as it should be.
I still have an occasional bad day. The only difference is that on those days I go for a run. I lift weights. I talk to my husband or I call a friend. I remember how lucky I am to not only be alive, but to not be locked in a padded room somewhere (insert sarcastic laughter here). I am also lucky to no longer be alone.
I can think of my mother’s face, her laugh, and all the things she said to me when I was a girl. I can smile and remember her with love and be happy I knew her. I continue to miss her everyday, but I no longer grieve. I celebrate. Each day I break down a new wall within myself.
And I don’t use my head to do it.
