Yesterday, I got a laryngoscopy.
Since last February, I’ve gotten strep throat and/or had tonsillitis frequently. The first instance of tonsillitis sent me to the ER as I couldn’t eat or swallow or talk —my uvula (famously known as that little thing dangling in the back of my throat) was turned and blocking my throat. It was gnarly, to say the least. About three weeks ago, I starting having pain eating and swallowing and again took myself to the ER for what was another case of strep throat and an abscess.
I had another CT scan, another round of antibiotics and finally, my PCP referred me to a specialist.
I told my doctor what I tell all my doctors before anyone touches me: I’m a survivor of childhood abuse. I need to be told everything that’s going to be done to me. I need folks to be sensitive and patient with me as I’m prone to panic because I don’t have control over what’s occurring and my body very acutely keeps score. Gentle and funny, Dr. Christina walked me through my CT scan — something the ER failed to do — and then she saw something, “who broke your nose?!”
A familiar feeling of dread settled over me. “I grew up with a pretty…violent parent,” I told her.
I’ve only recently gotten “good” at taking care of myself over the last three years, especially as it regards to keeping up with medical appointments. As someone who has been perpetually under-insured and made afraid to get consistent medical care, I avoided all necessary medical care like the plague until I got the fucking plague, and I had to learn to advocate for myself in medical spaces to get the answers and the care I needed.
This also meant having injuries be revealed to me that had gone untreated from past instances of abuse, so I was simultaneously surprised and not surprised upon finding out that my nose had been broken for years.
Suddenly, the constant nosebleeds and pain in my face I suffered throughout my junior year of high school made a whole lot of sense. I don’t remember having my head slammed into the wall. I don’t remember my mom’s fist colliding with my face. But I don’t need to remember what my body knows. How it happened will be lost to the fracturing of dissociative time and, at this juncture in my recovery, I’m uninterested in recovering all of that memory as proof.
Last night, I dreamt I was a seal and also my adolescent self trying to protect said seal from some pretty horrific abuse.
I’ve regained a very vivid dreaming life now that I’m casual stoner instead of a functional dependent, so when I am feeling stress, I have these dreams that are movies that would scare the shit out of Ari Aster. These dreams serve a purpose—a space for my subconscious to work out the bits and details softened by dissociation to protect me from traumas I couldn’t work out in my younger years.
I kept a serious dream journal for years with my own glossary of symbols on some Jungian type shit. That practice of interpreting dreams helped me make sense of the experience of my younger selves who were unable and unequipped at the time to make sense of the constant terror I had to navigate. Writing down my dreams also helped me learn to recognize that this fascinating piece of electrified meat inside my skull comes preinstalled with apps for self protection and self preservation.
I don’t always need to go to my journal to interpret what I’m trying to reveal to myself, these days: the seal needed a witness and a defender and my teenage self was able to act as both witness and protector—that’s what’s changed in my waking life and as such, has changed in of my dreaming life: I am able to assert my will, no longer am I powerless in the waking world, so I am no longer powerless in my dreaming space.
I can speak my mind, I can keep myself safe, I can rescue me.
And, in the moments I forget that I have the capacity and the tools to attend to my needs, my dream mind transforms me into a seal who needs to be rescued from some shitty animal abusers and fifteen year old me shows up with righteous rage and wrath to save the little seal.
Remember the print sale I mentioned last newsletter? Well, you can go and snag some limited edition prints over yonder at Speculation Bookshop. Every print sale goes towards helping me get to Chicago to begin the groundwork to open up my brick and mortar bookshop so tell everyone you know to pick up a print or two (or three). xo -Oriana
Your existence brings such joy to the world. Thank you♥️