As I’ve been exploring who I am from every facet while I heal, the role of music has been quite huge. Leading up to my hysterectomy, my emotions have ranged from fear to loss to relief. Currently, the relief has made the entire experience worthwhile. I had my doubts on the day after and it lasted a few days. It seemed like such an extreme thing to do to my body to try to find relief from decades of pain. However, although I’ve found that orgasms are not as intense, I am not even two full weeks away from the actual surgery. I’m still pretty sore, but not the kind of sore that requires constant ice or medications, thankfully. I’ve lost a little weight, 12 pounds since surgery day. It has been holding at that 12-pound mark for a few days, so I believe I’ll plateau at this weight for a little while before restrictions will be lifted and I can become more active. Listening to my body has been a new discovery altogether. I have energy enough where lifting a laundry basket is automatic only to be reminded by my sore abdomen that I must not lift anything heavier than my cat.
This weight restriction is by far the hardest. Flour, pots of water, even a full gallon of almond milk have been either impossible or difficult for me. Who would know unless they were where I am with a healing wound that we lift with far more than our biceps? I thought the scars would bother me, but honestly they haven’t at all. They’re going to be deep and raised, I can already tell. That might be because I had an allergic reaction to the adhesive they used and it had to be peeled off prematurely. I think the years of wanting to show off my stomach are a lifetime away just like high school and college. As age begins to change my body from youthful and vibrant to seasoned and settled in, my heart begins to feel the same way. I feel as though I’m now in the Fall season of my life. The colors are changing on my skin and hair. I have bumps and age spots slowly rolling in and I still haven’t decided if I’m just going to allow my hair to start to go white. I have creases growing deeper, but I wouldn’t call them wrinkles yet. It’ll be a decade or more if I’m lucky before wrinkles are a thing. Greying and white hair were always something that happened as early as my 20’s as well as most of my family, but embracing my body and what it’s been through to keep me alive has become a humble respect instead of regrettable flaws.
I have to admit, I’m finally beginning to embrace happiness for where I am in life. I understand why I’ve been hypervigilant in the past. I grew up in a system I’m only beginning to understand that required me to always be on edge about my worthiness. Whether it was my worthiness in appearance, attitude, or aptitude, it was always there. And now, with my husband assuming all my roles but baking/running my business (which is thankfully on hold with no fears for the future with a new business already awaiting my return once I’ve recovered), I’m in a humble place of reflection. It’s interesting to me that it took having no responsibility but rest to take me out of the hypervigilant mindset. I hadn’t even realized that my pace with self-employment and housekeeping and trying to figure out my role as mom to a seven-year-old was keeping me from letting my guard down. I’m beginning to realize that the threats I experienced in our last neighborhood only seemed all the more threatening was because of the state of mind I was already in from my upbringing. With appearance, attitude and aptitude as paramount attributes to acquire for acceptance and salvation, I had no idea that my A-type (see what I did there with all the A’s?) personality would be crushed by a neighborhood that purposefully broke all the rules as a way to unwind from a world that required my neighbors to conform. I half wish now that I had joined in on the loud music and smaller forms of partying then maybe yelling outside the window to turn that down wouldn’t have had me in danger of popping an aneurism or something. But, it happened, not the aneurism thing, but the stress was damaging only to me and not the people around me. I mean, sure, they probably were tired of hearing me ask repeatedly for them to stop, but it’s much better to live with a “be and let be” attitude than to try to get peace and quiet in the middle of a noisy city, especially in an area where noise ordinances are not seen as anything of concern to anyone but the sheltered white lady from rural Maine. Sheltered. That term was often used by my older brother when he was in high school and beyond. He now works for the military as a civilian. I’ve also dated military before and also know what he means. I believe, looking back on that experience, that my naiveté in thinking everyone cared about rules and ordinances would give me peace and quiet in the evenings. Only the rural areas will give me that. Thankfully, that’s exactly where we are now. And now I can recuperate in the peaceful quiet save the state highway that runs by our home. I always lived off a main road, but this one is busier than the little paved hardscrabble we lived off of as kids. All the same, it’s rural and peaceful with plenty of wildlife to keep the experience alive.
I thought being angry at my neighbors meant I had some huge underlying issue within myself. They were loud, rude, and downright mean when I asked for quiet. Yet, not only was it a difference in culture (they grew up there and things were always like that according to their word), I don’t think the clashes of race in recent American history helped the situation much at all. I really believed myself to be an antiracist only to discover that I had much, much growth and awakening to be even considered an ally. Honestly, though, I just didn’t want their cars running exhaust into my kitchen window or their music to override my daughter’s cartoons. It was eventually accepted that if this was their way of life then I’d better get with it or get out. And I was fearful about retaliation like sliced tires or more break ins or even assault if I continued to speak up about the noise because a young person who moved in with her aunt began to hurl insults and threats my way. I never stuck around long enough from car to apartment to hear them, but when a lady who was off her mental health medications (possibly due to the covid lockdowns since everything became far worse when no one was going anywhere) openly threatened me by pounding on my door. The police intervened and unfortunately because I had nothing on video since my door camera didn’t kick in until maybe 30 seconds into the pounding and “I’m going to kill you!” comments, they couldn’t do a thing. She claimed it never happened. Her word against mine. I found out later that she told a friend of mine that I worked for the FBI and had been spying on her. Oddly, she wasn’t even one to blast music at 10pm on a work night. I still don’t know what came over her except maybe she thought my privacy film on my window was something like a 2-way mirror and she had been watching too much TV. I had bought the film off Amazon because our buildings were maybe 5 feet apart from each other and I found it odd how we could see in each other’s homes. We still had curtains for night time… anyways, how bizarre and the cops agreed. I sure hope she got the help she needed, but we definitely scrambled to get out. It was refreshing to live outside that neighborhood, even if it was in our friends’ basement for a bit under 6 months. Maybe it was 4? 3? Hard to say. I was still on-edge. She was one sick lady. I could handle a teenager screaming smack at me and having the other neighborhood kids call me a racist, but that threw me over the edge. I was fearful the kids would take action more than just taunt. Although I know my place in the world of trying to become a better ally, it still hurt to hear something as nasty as racist. I was there when they crashed their bikes and their caregivers weren’t home. I was the trained first aid and shoulder to cry on. It’s a shame something like loud music would change their view of me when all I wanted to do was make their lives safer by having me in it: another adult watching out for broken glass in front of our homes where the kids played or vehicles driving by a bit too fast. Another adult with a band aid and quick run to their house to get their adult if they got hurt badly. Classic white savior stupidity or genuine care for young kids? I guess I’ll never know for sure, but I really cared about their well-being, you know? I even considered becoming a Boys & Girls of America youth leader, but I’ve considered many roles beyond mom only to come to the conclusion that giving up any of my mom hours would create too much strain on my schedule if she or I were to get sick, and we were still picking up every bug at Sunday school or play date.
I don’t think I’ve decompressed from those 2 years in one of the worst neighborhoods in Colorado Springs. Gang activity, a few shootings, one murder, broken glass, used needles, either a homeless camp or illegal dumping ground… down the street from the apartment we saw online was drastically different than Google Maps/images brought up. We thought we did our due diligence to make sure we were moving into a nice, clean place, but this online find was bad just like our other online find in California that was roach-infested. We didn’t have roaches in Colorado, but we did have issues with a loud neighborhood. It didn’t feel unsafe until the crazy lady next door unfortunately succumbed to her mental illness and I oddly became the subject of her paranoid imagination. Vandalism was getting worse as the lockdowns continued. The photos I found in our filing cabinet I had kept for two years (mostly because I forgot they were there) were haunting. Smashed in car windshields, graffiti everywhere, more broken glass and trash. When we got out of the apartment for fresh air, I would only go to the very public hikes around town. The less homeless, the better, so I could separate myself from the rubble of our breaking down neighborhood. It was an honest mistake. There really isn’t much anyone can do when moving to a new state to ensure where they are picking is to their liking. We did all the checks on social media and anywhere we could think of. I still find it remarkable how different online was as compared to reality. And to top off the entire nightmare, the property management group we were going through were not only unfair in their practices, but they found every excuse to not return the full security deposit- a battle we decided we didn’t have the energy for although I’m sure we were entitled to every penny and simply didn’t feel like going toe to toe with rich white lawyers over just a couple hundred dollars. We got out without needing to pay the remaining of our lease, which nearly happened, so we just left. I wish it still didn’t make my blood boil just how badly we and the other tenants who were trying to also move away from that “dumpster fire” were treated. Unfair treatment was indeed the theme of 2019-2020.
But we got out. And hanging out with our friends in their finished basement was almost like a vacation for me…except the basement part without any full-sized windows. The neighborhood was very quiet and safe enough that by the time Halloween rolled around, going door-to-door for candy was a welcomed last-minute decision. I loved that my daughter had a little girl around her age living upstairs from her and they both loved her little brother. I also loved having a mom not too far from my own age to talk to about just how bad things were, which seldom was the conversation, but we got close connecting over our controlling past. Her cult was much more obvious than mine, but we drew close to each other, both thankful we escaped and had husbands that celebrated us for who we are and not just for our bodies. We even felt connected with our faith being very similar. Although Anglican, I enjoyed talking about how thankful I was to be able to worship God freely without guilt.
Music. During the two years living at our old apartment, 2019-2020 being the worse year, music wasn’t something I enjoyed at all at any level higher than conversational level. I used to enjoy churches that were nearly like a concert when you walked in. I’m not sure when that changed for me. Was it when my husband and I started to go to a Baptist church in rural Maine together? I had gone to quite a few different churches trying to figure out what I liked, a few of them were loud. A few were in the middle. When exactly did noise become a thing? I thought maybe it was because my ex had turned up music while driving dangerously fast and erratically on purpose to scare me during or after a fight or maybe he hit me while listening to loud music? I’m not sure on the latter but I clearly remember the bad driving, but even after scanning my memory, I don’t think I can come up with much besides my hearing has been getting worse over time. I always knew since diagnosis of MHA that hearing loss was a thing, so when the tinnitus set in only a year or so after my daughter was born, I knew it wouldn’t ever go away. I vaguely remember going through some hearing screenings and thankfully no real hearing loss was recorded, but I have noticed sensitive skin in my ear canal, more frequent yet minor (clear up on their own) ear infections and almost always having itchy ears. I still have all the same symptoms 5-6 years later, so I figure that must be it.
If not the hearing, then maybe it was simply feeling unsafe or overstimulated?
Overstimulation. Sounds like my childhood learning how to seek approval through actions, attitude, accolades, and straight-A’s. For my classmates, I was too good. For my parents, I was never good enough. For my siblings I was annoying. To my peers, I was arrogant. Who was I, really?
Leading up to my surgery, I knew we already had decided years prior that babies were too risky for my body… my husband got “the snip” in 2018 in hopes of keeping me away from a high-risk and longer recovery time kind of procedure. Yet, 5 years later, here I am in the aftermath of a complete hysterectomy. I had already gone through the regret and even almost chickened out that moment they were rolling me away before my husband came back from the parking garage. I’m thankful I didn’t have the chance to chicken out because I don’t remember what happened next. I was probably already under anesthesia. The regret was thankfully only due to the deep, almost black bruising of the surgical area as well as the pain, which was far worse than I had expected. The pain I had from my appendectomy/cystectomy in 2011 wasn’t at all the same. However, now that I’m approaching 2 weeks after surgery, I’m finding that my recovery is going far smoother than it did in 2011. My scars are deeper, and the surgery was far more involved this time, but healing is better and I’m not taking much more than Tylenol every so often. Ice is still my friend, but as I type this, I’m lying on my bed on my belly with a laptop. Modern medicine has matured along with me, I suppose.
It’s funny, yesterday my pain was nearly akin to the period cramps I used to get. I remember opening my phone to look for my tracking app for my cycle only to remember why I deleted it- I cancelled my “monthly subscription” and would never have a period again. I triumphantly dug out the period supplies out of the bathroom. They’re now in a giveaway pile to a family with two menstruating young women. Currently, I’m surprised by the relief that I am already at the previous “crampy” stage of my pain. Before surgery, it was nearly always there and sometimes I’d need Tylenol to bring it to manageable levels. I’m ALREADY at my pre-surgery self. And I have little to no care about the scars. I thought I’d be crying over no more babies, but I believe this is a huge milestone for me. Even if I go down the road of, “If I had only stuck to one birth control, my body would have reset faster giving us more room to try” or any of the other “if-only’s,” I believe I’ve radically accepted, to borrow a term my therapist uses often, that there will always be “if-only’s” in life. Right now, in this present moment, I am content. We tried. We did what we could with what obstacles were in our life- stress, frequent illness, navigating high-risk health conditions, and life changes. We tried what we could to get the timing just right in light of all these obstacles including time to grieve a loss by trying a new birth control method, etc. The path before can be defined as “we did the best we could with the best we could.” And we have this pretty amazing seven-year-old.
I have more to write on this topic, but I just heard the car door of my family returning from school. More thoughts later on music, but what a day today has been already!
summersolstice1115 