The Surgeon came to see me. I think he detects a difference in me, because he was in fine form.
I look like my pimp beat me with a baseball bat.
Some detail, including photographs, after the jump. Click at your own risk–probably not safe for work. Or for lunchtime. Here’s a taste:
I debated for a bit about whether I ought to write about this, for obvious reasons. Eventually, I figured that it’s my blog, I can do whatever I want. And my new motto is, after all, “Transparency is a regime value!”
So–it was an interesting afternoon. It’s funny, the way your sense of time gets distorted.
I intended to work on a lit review this evening, but that’s just not going to happen (and fuck me–now that I think of it, I was supposed to go to a meeting at 6:30…argh!). I probably couldn’t play a competitive game of Tic-tak-toe. It really is the damndest thing, the way it wipes out the brain. I mentioned it in passing here. I didn’t drink or use drugs, but…in some ways, it’s not dissimilar.
Well, enough pussyfooting around, let’s take a look at the damage (well, some of it, anyway…can’t post my back, sorry):
|Yikes! The one on the left (WHICH one, ha,ha!..the reddest one) bled to the surface.|
Weird. It didn’t hurt when it happened–well, wait, it hurt, but it didn’t feel bad.
Sure as hell doesn’t feel too good now, though. Not that I’m complaining. I have always maintained that marks are just the cost of doing business. I am not squeamish, and I am not afraid of pain. To quote Joe Henry: my flesh and blood is no more real to me/than what they seem.
Actually, go listen to the entire song. It’s good. Very romantic. At least, it is to me. You, of course, may have a different perspective, good reader.
Anyway…where was I? Oh, yes. These photographs are very recent. Oftentimes, I haven’t checked the condition of my hide until the morning after (how appropriate). I remember these occasions very well. Sometimes, I’d wake up in the night, in discomfort from rolling onto my back (or wherever). I’d start awake, register the pain, roll over, and fall back asleep.
Then, in the morning, I’d roll out of bed and know immediately that I was injured. Sometimes it got to be like a game–I’d stand up, rotate my limbs and my torso, try to estimate how severe it was, and where. And then I would rush to the bathroom. I remember it so clearly. My feet on the cold tile floor, hand reaching for the light switch in the dark, my back to the mirror. The great unveiling! The big strip tease./Gentlemen, ladies/these are my hands/my knees./I may be skin and bone,/nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
Plath is overrated (and I pity Ted Hughes tremendously), but she could turn a phrase.
Afterwards, sometimes, I play the part of the forensics investigator. I ask myself: where did that mark come from? Cause I can’t recall, for sure. Take, for instance, this one:
Horseshoe-shaped; almost round. What was that? Belt buckle?
I’m still trembling. Like I’d just lifted supersets at the gym, or done the 9-mile hike to the summit in Summertime. Pushing to muscle failure.
My analyst says that I will have to give this up if I want real love with someone, but I don’t understand what that means. It sounds to me like one of those old TV game shows, where the host asks, “Do you want what you have now…or would you rather exchange it for what’s behind Door #3?”
I had a modeling job scheduled for this coming Sunday. NEVER MIND!
Explaining the marks is always a chore. Once, a good friend of mine (who knew the whole story) quipped that I could say I’d gotten the marks in a Bosnian rape camp. Touche! Very witty, that. Very witty. I do miss my friend.