Things nobody told me

I’m currently healing from a broken collarbone injury that resulted in a surgery. It’s bringing a lot of things in my life to my attention, one of those things being all of my nerves living just beneath my skin.

Nobody told me when I got my surgery; that not only would my incision become itchy, but so would the surrounding area. It didn’t happen immediately, I even thought I missed the itchy window that accompanies wounds that are healing since my incision is beginning to form a scar. Boy was I wrong, and this is so much worse.

It’s an itch I can’t scratch. Nothing can satiate it. I dream of scraping sandpaper across my skin, in hopes the grit might actually scratch the nerves themselves. The other night I wore a shirt made of metallic string. That may have been the closest to relief from this unbearable burn that I have gotten thus far. I’m seeking tips if anyone is wondering, don’t gatekeep your niche tips for helping me get through an injury, I want to know how you helped yourself heal. Just like I know so many people want to know how I’m healing.

Telling somebody across the dinner table that you want to dig your own fingers into your skin to remove the metal plate and it’s 9 screws when they ask you how you’re healing isn’t really kosher. So I collect my candor here, in these words, read em if you really care. If you were just asking to be polite, you don’t have to keep reading.

Another sick thing about spending so much time on my couch with a full back heating pad with a tie around the waist fashioned on my body is that I have so much time to think. About everything, and nothing. And it’s honestly awesome, not all the emotions I experience, but that I can experience them. I know not everyone gets that luxury, but just a remember when you tell me that having time off like this must be nice. It is, but it comes with a cost.

Learning to move my body again. Something that was habitual to me is no longer accessible. At least not without a little bit of will power and a lot physical therapy. It comes with financial stress, something I’ve had to learn to not dwell on. I worry about how I could handle something like this if I didn’t have a partner. Hair dressers don’t have much security when it comes to getting injured, and that’s a scary thought, one that I’d be living in if I didn’t have my husband.

It’d be a lie if I said he wasn’t my security (no he doesn’t make me say that, and he doesn’t make me feel bad about it). He actually reminds me of how I contribute to our relationship as a whole. And that my currency is worth more than money at times (fine, those last ones are my words, but he’d agree).

So yeah, I guess nobody ever told me you are allowed to rely on your partner to help carry you through hard times. That you don’t have to feel guilty about it. That it’s a beautiful thing to have somebody who only wants to make your life easier. It doesn’t make me any less of a woman or a feminist for accepting help from somebody who loves me and wants to care for me. The feeling is mutual, or else I’d be gone by now. I think I've shown him that this past week by sacrificing my bed to sleep next to him on the couch after his septum surgery. I even cooked him dinner twice, that definitely won’t happen again in one week anytime this year. So what, he’s the primary cook, I’m busy writing this blog that brings in $0. Some call it a hobby, I call it being a working girl.

I wonder if my parents shared that same kind of love, in their own strange way. They were married for 23 years, but it wasn’t a marriage filled with affection. I feel like it’s common knowledge by this point, but for those who don’t know, my dad was gay. Annnnnnd I grew up christian. No, not catholic, evangelical. Ever heard of it? Kind of like mega churches, but much smaller scale. And the school I went to was called the Master’s House. Yeah, sounds kinda culty when ya say it out loud doesn’t it? It’s taken me a few thousand dollars in therapy, and a lot of weed to come to terms with what that even means for my childhood.

Which leads me to another thing I was never told, that my dad was gay. At least not until I was 16, far too old for a weight that heavy to carry if you ask me. I was told a few days before my 16th birthday on my way out the door to see Despicable Me 2 with my sister. My dad stopped me, and asked if we could talk. I figured he was going to tell me he was gay, I had already texted my sister to ask her recently. Wondering why I would think that? Well, the way he ate popsicles always made me feel very uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure why, but looking back, it all makes sense now. She told me I’d have to talk to him myself. And so, I sat. We were end to end across the island counter. He talked, I listened. Per usual when we spoke. He shared about how he “lived the gay lifestyle” before my mom. How he went back to his hometown and got “saved” and was no longer gay. About terrible things that have happened to him and his belief as to how that impacted his desires in life. As if there was any rhyme or reason as to why he was flawed. But he was never flawed for his interests. That was the point of view of the church, and those who subscribed to the church’s teachings without second guessing.

I just cried and listened. Confused, sad, uncertain. I had been lied to my whole life, that I was sure of. But how I was supposed to navigate my already complex relationship with my father, that I was unsure of.

I’m realizing after his death, that there is so much I didn’t know about my father. He hid things well, I’ll give him that. But what he hid, was a great burden to bare. He hid small pieces of himself from every person he knew. You never got the full picture. Not even my mother, sister, or I. People that lived with him for half of his life, and most of ours. I have spent more years of my life living with my dad than I have spent not. It’s taken being far away from him and his choices to find my healing. And that’s a sad thing I have had to come to terms with. But it’s true. I would not be who I am had I not taken distance from my father. I have become the best version of me, and one I am actually proud of, since taking that distance. I have wished that that wasn’t the truth, but it did nothing to impact my reality.

Because of my choice to remove my father from my life, I was not informed of my father’s funeral. If you haven’t caught on by now, that’s another thing nobody told me about, until I asked. The only reason I was even clued in to ask, is because I went and saw a medium. The medium channeled my dad immediately. I was astounded by the accuracy in some of the information she shared. One thing that stood out, was him mentioning that they are “forcing him to have a catholic funeral”. I didn’t know the details then, so I could not confirm or deny, but I knew it was likely as he grew up catholic. When I found out the date, I told my sister about it, and she told me a eulogy popped into her head a few days ago. Serendipity? I let her think it over, and I did too. A few days later we spoke again, and decided we should go. You don’t have to be invited to a funeral after all. Especially not your own father’s. If you’re confused why we weren’t invited, remember how I said I cut my dad out? Well apparently that warrants getting placed blame on when your dad kills himself. Because I could’ve saved him. As if I hadn’t spent my life trying… I guess none of that matters now, since we told my aunt’s we were going to attend, they decided to cancel the whole thing. They said they didn’t want drama. Do you think this blog post counts as drama?

I really didn’t plan for this whole thing to be about my dad. But I do mostly write about what I’m going through, and this is just one of those things right now. Classic dad, swooping in when I have other plans and stealing the spotlight again. God you’d think I’m obsessed. Wouldn’t he love that.

Let’s circle back to that collarbone injury I started on. And how that all played out. Filed into the cabinet labeled Things nobody told me: how to stop while skiing when pizza isn’t working. Thus, resulting in the broken collarbone. I should’ve taken the lesson, and most importantly not trusted my over confident husband to teach me everything I need to know about a very dangerous sport. I could carve on the bunny slope, and he thought that was impressive. I didn’t know just how important it was for me to continue to try stopping successfully, if I could go down the mountain like I could. He obviously didn’t either. So up the green we went, and down the mountain I fell. After only 2 runs on the bunny slope. Don’t ever spend only 2 runs on the bunny slope your first day of skiing, I don’t care how good you think you are. Learn from my mistakes, or end up getting skied down the mountain in a body bag strapped to a stretcher. If you’re lucky you’ll get a neck brace and oxygen mask. Not humiliating at all. Add it list of “I can’t believe that happened to you” stories I save for when the conversation gets dull.

I could go on for pages about the things people haven’t told me, but I think I’ve got just enough for you to digest in what I’ve already written. Intrigued yet? Stay tuned for whatever the next post my brain deems worthy of sharing. Or read through what I’ve already posted. The choice is yours, unlike my choice to get metal implanted into my bone.