After weeks of lurking in the shadows, consider this my quiet whisper of

I’m still here.

 

I’ve been afraid to post about this summer.  I don’t know if it’s because it changed me, or because I am not proud of it.

I returned to Kansas City, where I underwent my third surgery.  They removed my other front tooth (the sliver that was left of it that they had hoped might live…it didn’t) and put in ANOTHER bone graft.  Everyone here in Colorado asks why I won’t go skiing or mountain biking.  I tell them I can only afford to break my face once.  They laugh – but I’m not kidding.  The good news is I should get the first of two surgeries for implants done over Christmas, and the second over spring break.  All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth…

Adam was there for me – he sacrificed every job opportunity to be with me.  Because I had given up on life.  I was in so much pain – physically and emotionally – that I couldn’t function.  He – not my parents – was the one who made sure I had something to eat.  That I took my medicine (in the doses prescribed).  That I didn’t totally zone out of the world.  He picked me up from the hospital and immediately took me to Wendy’s – as per my drugged instructions – and spoon fed me two Chocolate Frosty’s with mushed up fries.  I tried to take the spoon and do it myself, but as anyone who has been completely “knocked out” can attest to, my motor skills enabled only my chin and the front of my shirt to meet the spoon.  It was pretty pathetic.  Those first days, he fed me, bathed me, and read to me.  I completely let go of the world, and he pulled me back to it.

 

All too soon, he had to go home to Austin.  On the same trip to the airport I picked up three new arrivals.  My old host sister, Clara, came to visit with two of her friends for two weeks.  Clara, the daughter of the host parents who had vehemently blamed me for my accident.  Clara, the bitch that I could not stand as it was living with her.  Oh joy.  Let the triggers begin.

 

But at some point, there was healing.  And I’m not even sure how it transgressed, but it did.

 

Having her there – selfish, controlling, eyes-burning-with-joy at any pain she could cause me…gave my parents an idea at what I had been through.  Her comments on how nothing was good enough, how everything I did was wrong, lit a fire under my parents.  For the first time, I really felt their support.

My host parents sent multiple e-mails to my parents during this time, all grateful for the “wonderful American experience” Clara was having – which was ironic, because Clara herself never said a positive thing (especially thank you).  They did not mention me at all – all emails were addressed to Andrew and Rebecca only.  They did not ask how my recovery was – nor had they ever.  They did not ask how surgery went, how school was going, if I was happy. 

My mom always replied, pointing out that everything fun the girls did was because of me (which it was, and god were they high maintenance).  She even mentioned that I HAD had surgery less than a week ago.  Still nothing.

 

And it hit me.  Who were they to judge me, to make me question myself, to torment me and incite an eating disorder, suicide attempts, removal from all which made me happy?  Honestly, who the fuck were they?

 

I wasn’t angry.  I was relieved.  The greatest weight in the world was off my chest.

And now, it’s a non-issue.

 

I can honestly say I did my best to accommodate the girls in any way I could.  And now they are gone, out of my life.  The entire experience is gone.

 

 

But you’ve all heard that story.

 

The real story began when Adam left, when they left, when I had to learn to stand on my own two feet and discover who I was – and who I wanted to be.

 

 

 

We’ll save that for next time.

 

May