STRANGE ME, INGRATE EDITION

by Lisa

I see a stranger when I catch myself in a mirror. Whose face is this, with the bones and veins so close to the surface? Whose legs are these, with knees round like grapefruits and thighs like wiffle ball bats? I am an anatomy lesson: here is the iliac crest, here is the sacrum, here is the solar plexus, count the vertebrae. If I’d landed in this body for a different reason, I might see myself as the unusual shape I was born to inhabit. Now, I’m insulted by my reflection.

In December, I learned that I had breast cancer. I have been numbingly furious at my body since that day. Betrayed, and ashamed at being sick again after a lifetime of too much of that. I am not alone. I need two hands to count friends and family living with cancer and working to escape it. Alone would be better.

In January, I thought that I might die sooner than later. The fury at maybe being forced to leave the front row seat of this beautiful life left me mute with rage. I still choke on the words that might help me find peace. I gag when I think of saying an angry word, because my cancer is gone and I should be relieved that I did not need radiation or chemo, with selfish selfish fury at my lack of gratitude.

This silent fury doesn’t speak in words. It makes me turn away from myself to keep from weeping out loud and scaring my dear loved ones. Away from myself is safer than crawling around inside and seeing my ugly angry heart and the failed attempts at finding my way back to me. I liked me and I miss me. Am I still me?

So, I am pecking and picking at ways to feel less like a stranger to this body and its harsh sharpness. Two pairs of jeans in an absurdly small size found after trying on every pair of pants in the store, peck peck. Three new soft long sweater dresses to smooth out the edges and to muffle the angles a little, peck peck. One constant train of self-talk to push away the distress of what if what if what if I look sick and strange now, forcing replacement of sick and strange with remembering my long history of being the kind of skinny that makes well-meaning people gently ask if I have eaten today or yesterday or the day before. The answer is always yes, I have eaten, and yes I will eat again soon, pick pick and finish the leftovers later.

Today I will sift through clothes to cobble together a little wardrobe that fits and circumvents the despair of putting on a favorite anything just to have it fall off or gape open where there used to be enough of me to fill those spaces.

The spaces fill up with the anger resentment betrayal fury rage fear and I hate it. I hate it for myself, and in myself, but I hate it more for the people who have to see it in their front row seats to my own life. It’s not fair to them. My spaces filled with ugly things don’t leave room to see the beautiful that must still be even if I can’t find it. That’s the work now, setting aside the choke of fury and betrayal to see what radiated goodness and awe before I broke.

I’m so sorry.