Page 12 of The Scars I Bare
Speaking of which, Blake and I are both great, and hopefully, we will have the house up and running someday, so we can have guests, but until then, we’re still knee-deep in renovations. I know, I know. Who said it was a great idea to buy a fixer-upper when we could have bought a brand-new house?
But at least I get to pick everything out, right?
Until next time, friends and family.
Cora
There were tears falling from my cheeks as I typed the last few words. After several years of this, I was now numb to the ease at which the lies sprang forth from my fingers. Numb to the comments from my parents and friends asking when they’d finally get to visit, followed by yet another excuse.
Just numb.
I’d created this blog to share my life with my family, and now, it was nothing but a tool to camouflage what I’d become.
Nothing.
I was nothing but an empty shell, and no one needed to see that, especially the ones I loved the most.
Recovery Journal: Day Three
I know, I know. I said I wouldn’t do this.
But what else am I going to do? Have you actually ever watched daytime TV?
It’s shit.
Especially in a hospital that only provides a handful of channels.
My family went back home. Honestly, I’m glad for it. None of them know what to say.
And their eyes.
It’s a constant game of Let’s Avoid Dean’s Stump!
My mom is the worst. Her gaze will start to drift, tears will start to rim her eyes, and her lips will quiver as a wave of guilt washes over her before she suddenly jerks away.
Ten minutes later, it all starts again.
And then there are the hushed conversations. The ones with the doctors outside my room, which I’m supposed to pretend I can’t hear, when they talk about my mental health and well-being and what is and is not perfectly normal for an amputee like me.
Amputee.
The word feels vile against my tongue.
The shrink says I should talk about it.
I told him to go fuck off.
In a private conversation, he told my mother it was all part of the process for me to lash out.
Oh, good. I was worried.
The overly talkative shrink also said it would be therapeutic—his word, not mine—for me to record memories from the night of the accident in this stupid book.
He said I might not always remember them as vividly as I do now.
Seriously, who is this guy?
I might not remember?
