Keeping Quiet
There is a war within most people over inner conflict. There are those of us who yell and scream, fight our way into what we want and those of us who sit and stew in it. And while we aren't entirely only one or the other usually we do lean in one direction. So each time we are dissatisfied, every encounter that doesn't pan out the way we might plan, we have to decide whether its worth the effort to duke it out or whether we'd rather just let things go by as per usual. I for one am a study in schizophrenia where this is concerned. There are places in my life where I am like a crazy drunken soccer hooligan, kicking and screaming at the drop of a hat. I have almost come to blows over stage directions in Streetcar Named Desire. With a significant other of two years. But there are lots of times, generally likelier to be present the more things, unlike stage directions in a Tennessee Williams play, actually count for something in life, when I clam up and hope for the unaided betterment of my life. Which as you might guess usually pans out terribly well for me.
I am now going to tell an embarrassing story which illustrates a point. So I'm asking you not to judge the more literal aspect of my past here and move to what it says metaphorically about my personality. Because, otherwise I'll just be mocked even more incessantly than I am for this.
So. Here's the thing. I grew a fungus on my body for over 4 years. Yes, a real live colony of tiny flesh eating bacteria grew upon my fair skin for the end of high school and most of my college years. How on earth, you may wonder, could anyone, would anyone do such a thing? The tendency to not want to deal with a problem is a strong one. The desire to check out of the situation if it doesn't prove itself life threatening has arms, abs, you name it of steel. And I am weak to their power.
The details are this: Some time during my early sophomore year of high school I noticed a small patch of skin roughly the size of two quarters on my chest where the two front halves of my rib cage meet that looked slightly discolored. It was a little redder than the rest of my skin and seemed to be drier. I didn't know what it was. It didn't hurt, it didn't seem to do anything other than get a little flaky once in a while but I'd dealt with way worse in my time and thought little of the thing. Let me note that I never went "Oh, this just popped up!" It was always just there. I had no memory of it not being there so I assumed it was a birthmark. For a year my assumption was left pretty much unchecked as the thing stayed the exact same size and shape. Then, at some point I tried moisturizing it to get the dryness away. And during my junior year I realized it was just slightly bigger.
Not a lot bigger, just a tiny tiny bit, some of the edges had filled out. Well, the spot did not show from under my clothes and seemed to do no harm so yes, I left it. I mean, what was it hurting me? And how could I explain my "birthmark" otherwise? So I took to telling people it was indeed something I was born with. I mean, for all I knew it could have been true, maybe the mark just grew as I did.
So I went to college, and the thing stayed roughly the same for my first couple years. Fast forward some relatively non-life shattering info on the rash front to end of my junior year. One day I'm in rehearsal for a show wearing a low cut costume and the assistant director looks at me and says, "Oh my God Adrienne! Your chest is on fire!" And I looked down to see that indeed it was. I noticed the rash for the first time in years, it was huge and covered much of my torso. Now, to say that I never saw this before is a little bit of a lie. Indeed, day after day I saw it get bigger but over time slowly I would get used to its growth, always noting that it never really bothered me as it spread in tiny incremental amounts.
So there I was with a flame on my chest. Turns out it had spread to my back as well, I just never saw it because it was, well, on my back. I went to the campus health center and had to sit through the humiliating questions regarding how I might have contracted the rash and the length of time I'd had it, when had I noticed it etc... I of coure lied and said several months to which the doctor remarked on the fungus/rash's "impressive" growth ability. Aka, you are full of it. In any event there is a cream that one topically applies to the skin which will get ride of it in about a week. After it was all said and done I kind of missed my red scratchy friends. They had after spent nearly a quarter of my life with me.
The point of this story? Other than to embarrass myself? Well, don't put off the things you know you need to do. It seems small now, maybe the rash hasn't encroached on any vital things yet, but it's just going to do so later right? Staying silent in the face of not so impending doom is easy which I think is why it's so bad for us at times. Talk to those who can help you when you're stuck or they'll never get better.
So fuck keeping quiet. Let 'er rip.
I am now going to tell an embarrassing story which illustrates a point. So I'm asking you not to judge the more literal aspect of my past here and move to what it says metaphorically about my personality. Because, otherwise I'll just be mocked even more incessantly than I am for this.
So. Here's the thing. I grew a fungus on my body for over 4 years. Yes, a real live colony of tiny flesh eating bacteria grew upon my fair skin for the end of high school and most of my college years. How on earth, you may wonder, could anyone, would anyone do such a thing? The tendency to not want to deal with a problem is a strong one. The desire to check out of the situation if it doesn't prove itself life threatening has arms, abs, you name it of steel. And I am weak to their power.
The details are this: Some time during my early sophomore year of high school I noticed a small patch of skin roughly the size of two quarters on my chest where the two front halves of my rib cage meet that looked slightly discolored. It was a little redder than the rest of my skin and seemed to be drier. I didn't know what it was. It didn't hurt, it didn't seem to do anything other than get a little flaky once in a while but I'd dealt with way worse in my time and thought little of the thing. Let me note that I never went "Oh, this just popped up!" It was always just there. I had no memory of it not being there so I assumed it was a birthmark. For a year my assumption was left pretty much unchecked as the thing stayed the exact same size and shape. Then, at some point I tried moisturizing it to get the dryness away. And during my junior year I realized it was just slightly bigger.
Not a lot bigger, just a tiny tiny bit, some of the edges had filled out. Well, the spot did not show from under my clothes and seemed to do no harm so yes, I left it. I mean, what was it hurting me? And how could I explain my "birthmark" otherwise? So I took to telling people it was indeed something I was born with. I mean, for all I knew it could have been true, maybe the mark just grew as I did.
So I went to college, and the thing stayed roughly the same for my first couple years. Fast forward some relatively non-life shattering info on the rash front to end of my junior year. One day I'm in rehearsal for a show wearing a low cut costume and the assistant director looks at me and says, "Oh my God Adrienne! Your chest is on fire!" And I looked down to see that indeed it was. I noticed the rash for the first time in years, it was huge and covered much of my torso. Now, to say that I never saw this before is a little bit of a lie. Indeed, day after day I saw it get bigger but over time slowly I would get used to its growth, always noting that it never really bothered me as it spread in tiny incremental amounts.
So there I was with a flame on my chest. Turns out it had spread to my back as well, I just never saw it because it was, well, on my back. I went to the campus health center and had to sit through the humiliating questions regarding how I might have contracted the rash and the length of time I'd had it, when had I noticed it etc... I of coure lied and said several months to which the doctor remarked on the fungus/rash's "impressive" growth ability. Aka, you are full of it. In any event there is a cream that one topically applies to the skin which will get ride of it in about a week. After it was all said and done I kind of missed my red scratchy friends. They had after spent nearly a quarter of my life with me.
The point of this story? Other than to embarrass myself? Well, don't put off the things you know you need to do. It seems small now, maybe the rash hasn't encroached on any vital things yet, but it's just going to do so later right? Staying silent in the face of not so impending doom is easy which I think is why it's so bad for us at times. Talk to those who can help you when you're stuck or they'll never get better.
So fuck keeping quiet. Let 'er rip.
posted by A at 7:41 PM
1 Comments:
Interesting post. Bizarre synchronicity, I suppose, in how much it sounds like an embarrassing story of my own. I'll type it here, and hopefully you won't mind it being a disproportionately large comment.
A ways into my first year in junior high I discovered a lump that led me to suspect I had testicular cancer. There are several reasons, I think, that I didn't go to a doctor. One being that I was embarrassed over the location of the tumor, and I knew if I asked to go to the doctor my parents would interrogate me on the drive in order to find out just what was wrong with me. But perhaps more significant than that, I don't think I liked myself, and I didn't think anyone really liked me that much. The relationships I'd had with my parents and brother had dissolved in a mess of pubescent angst and pride, and the friends that I had spent more time ridiculing each other than actually forming real bonds. I didn't feel there was anyone to come forward to with my problem.
So, all through junior high I worried over it. I tried to make deals with the fictitious God I believed existed then--who, in times of personal darkness, I even suspected might even be punishing me (isn't religion great?). The tumor grew a bit each year, and the idea of coming forward seemed more remote with each day. The thought of telling my parents that I'd carried this possibly life-threatening secret around for years would be sure to make them ask the question: "What did I do wrong that he felt he couldn't come to me?" I didn't want to deal with their guilt which would only augment my own. I'd rather just keep living with it until I couldn't. But there were a lot of times I wondered if I'd live to see 20 years of age.
Around the summer of junior year in high school I began having significant pains in my lower abdomen--where some of your lymph nodes are. "So," I figured, "this is it." The pain was pretty bad, and the notion that I had cancer and it had spread to my lymph nodes and that I was probably going to die--that all those fears were real now--caused me to have a three day long anxiety attack until I finally broke down and told my dad.
The doctor's office was weird. My doctor said he wished to consult with his colleague over it. Two more colleagues later and I was in a room with three doctors and an intern with my pants down. My junk was apparently a fascinating specimen to be poked, fondled, and oggled. They were all shocked I'd waited so long but assured me nothing was cancerous, and told me if anything like this happens again to go in immediately. Apparently the pains in my abdomen were stress related, and to this day whenever I'm feeling stressed they return.
One of my friends thinks my keeping it secret for a long time was my way of trying to kill myself. While it's true I was in the midst of a massive depression, I'm not sure that was my intent. Even with all the health classes I took worrying me about all the symptoms, I still never felt any pain associated with the growth. That was the one symptom I was missing, and probably the only symptom I would have needed to get me to the doctor's office. I think my remaining silent had mostly to do with embarrassment and the fear that if I went to a doctor I'd have to deal with the finality of his diagnosis.
The lesson I gleaned from it was similar to yours: that I shouldn't keep such massive secrets. I wish I could say I've managed to follow it.
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