Hell to Home

gods I wish I were a musician

this past year has been one of striving, of getting beat down and climbing back up, of learning, of bleeding, of setting fire to one I love, of being set on fire, of ripping scabs off infected wounds, pouring hydrogen peroxide all over them and watching the bubbles fizz, of seeing myself in the mirror and losing my breath to horror… of remembering flight, and deep oceans. Of being embraced with immeasurable love and realizing I didn’t need to reject it, that maybe even I… well…

this past year has been one of finding home.

This year, I had three MRIs with contrast, hoping for no growth.

This year, I found a really skilled practitioner and went through an intensive new therapy process, hoping for growth.

This year I finished an excruciating, five thousand dollar, year-long process of dentistry school fuck-ups, extracting my four front teeth, shaving down to the literal nerve the two teeth on either side, having chunks of gum cut out and bone implanted (those who speak with dentists will have a corpse in their mouth), and finally getting an 8-point-bridge as a bulwark against gum problems I’ve been having for over 20 years.

This year, like the prior two years, I wrestled with senseless bureaucracies. They were simultaneously windmills, giants, and puffs of smoke that would materialize behind you to tie your shoelaces together while you weren’t looking. I did this to get healthcare and to pay for groceries; both resources will probably be gone by the end of the year.

You don’t get any treatments for the extreme amount of anxiety these bureaucracies intentionally produce. Neither, we are told, do teeth and gums count as a part of healthcare. I suppose when we flap our jaws, that entire section flies away from us, disembodied. Dealing with the complex trauma of an abusive childhood and the survival mechanisms that have become harmful for me and those close to me – this too is something other than health.

The MRIs, at least, were paid for.

This year, I spoke with my mom. Good and truly. About how we each lived through the violence, how it repercussed in our fractured connection. It’s a raw thing to do the hard work, the blood work, the ripping and stitching. It’s a beautiful thing to cry once you can imagine what healing might feel ...