Hello again.
It’s been a while. I think that’s because I have less to say, sometimes. I’m stabilizing more and more. My hair is growing back in. The horrific, steroid-induced moonface is fading. I walk up stairs and hills without impediment. I exercise. The panic attacks are further and further apart. My therapist thinks we can dive into the real EMDR soon.
My husband is even trying to garden again. I’m creative again, and I even get to visit my chickens.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m too open on here, too personal. If I’m using this blog for potential clients, do they want to know my mess? Do they care? If I look normal enough on the Zoom call and deliver the product on time, what else could they possibly need to know?
Am I scary? Do I scare you?
I once told my students that I was, in fact, a very intimidating person. They should be terrified.
One boy in the back of the class, thirteen years old and already six feet tall, burst out laughing.
“But I am so scary!”
He laughed harder, and the rest of the class joined him.
Because I’m not scary. I’m ridiculous and flamboyant and nerdish to the point of absurdity.
I remember being terrified of my mother’s anger when I was a child. I told my son, “Look, I should be so, so scary to you.”
Ten years old, and he couldn’t hold back his giggles. “But you’re not, Mom!”
No, no, I am not. Lord knows I try, but I fail.
I’m too soft.
I scare doctors, at least. They ask for my medical history, expecting a couple of sheets of paper. Childbirth records. A modest list of medications, if any at all. A brief summary of the usual parental maladies. Instead, they receive several volumes of “complications.” My husband once went to a doctor to request my records, and they handed him a box. A literal box, filled with blood test records and notes.
If you’re a medical professional, don’t let my calm demeanor and average appearance fool you. I’m a monster.
Well, not really.
But the medically complicated patient is her own kind of boogeyman.
Boo.
SJ Bocci Writes 