I’m All Right, But I’m Not Okay
I got hit by a car. It happened long enough ago now that it’s part of my history. I have curly hair. I always carry a book with me. I easily memorize songs. I got hit by a car. I didn’t realize just how MUCH it impacted me until later. Years later. Like, half a decade later.
See, when it happened, I was still teaching Sunday School. Not only that, but I was teaching two and three year olds. The FIRST THING I remember doing after coming back to myself is asking someone to go check on “my kids because they can’t wander around the church all by themselves.” Once that was taken care of, the logistics began. Where was I injured? How badly was I hurt? Whom should be called? Where should I be taken? Once in the hospital, the logistics continued. Who should see me? Where should they see me? When should they see me? Most of my support system at the time had not yet retired so THOSE details had to be worked out. Who should stay? Who should go back home? If work had to be done, who should do it? Some pins, some metal, some X-rays and some surgery later, I was out. Friends had to feed me, bathe me and wash my hair for a while, but I was fine. Wasn’t I?
Nobody told me how much it would still hurt. Nobody told me how shaken and scared it would leave me. Nobody told me I would cry.
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I was turning a corner when I saw it. A sign. Announcing a class. A class that I loved. A class that I helped teach. A class that brought me joy. A class that was starting again. A class that had someone else’s name on it. Somebody somewhere had given “my babies” into other hands. Hands that weren’t mine.
And no one had told me.
I asked. I was answered. Somebody somewhere had told somebody somewhere else that I wasn’t teaching anymore.
Someone said that I had given up my classes.
Someone gave my kids away.
And nobody told me.
I went to my husband.
He checked with the people in charge.
It was true. Someone had said that I was no longer teaching.
But no one had asked me.
They just reassigned my classes.
I cried.
But there was nothing anyone could do.
Just like that, I wasn’t a teacher anymore.
Just like that, a part of my identity was taken away.
Years ago now, it was.
Nobody told me how much it would still hurt. Nobody told me how sad I would still be. Nobody told me I would cry.
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I was standing in the kitchen when he said it.
Married a decade and a half.
Finally ready.
Tiny fingers.
Tiny toes.
Black hair like her father.
Glasses like me.
I could see it.
More than that, I could FEEL it.
That tiny girl was real to me.
She moved.
She breathed.
She existed.
Until he said no.
The man I loved said no.
With one sentence, he destroyed my dearest dream.
No babies.
Ever.
Because we’re the wrong kind of people to be parents.
Years ago now.
This one still hurts. This one still burns.
Nobody told me I would still be bleeding. Nobody told me it would still cut so. Nobody told me I would cry.
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Clouds.
That’s what I call them.
Turning everything overcast.
Coloring everything gray.
I don’t always know when they are coming.
This time I could tell.
“Help me” I wrote.
“They are coming. It’s going to last and it’s going to be bad.”
“Befriend me. Help me. Love me.”
I wrote friends. I wrote acquaintances.
I wrote people from work and play.
I wrote people from church.
It came.
It was bad.
Nobody wrote back.
Months later, I walked into the foyer outside the sanctuary.
One of the women I had written gasped…
“Oh…oh…I forgot you.” she said.
Church is surgery.
Church is healing.
Church is relationship.
Church is family.
Nobody wrote back.
Nobody told me how scared that would make me. Nobody told me how much worse it would get.
Nobody told me I would cry.
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Off and on since I was a teenager.
Therapist. Social worker. Counselor.
Call them what you will.
Sometimes I like the attention.
I’m an all about me girl for a while. They listen.
Or they pretend to.
But it was getting bad.
And I was getting scared.
And this time, I was scaring myself.
I told her it was dark up in there.
I told her it hurt.
She told me it was bi-polar.
She scared me.
I knew I was crazy.
I just didn’t wanna be insane.
This time, I could not get anyone to listen.
Second opinions, they said.
Prayer.
Meditation.
Pills.
This time, it wasn’t okay to hurt.
This time, it wasn’t okay to cry.
People scoffed.
Or disbelieved.
Or got angry.
Quirky they can handle.
Scary they cannot.
After all,
I’m not THAT bad.
I’ve never jumped off a roof.
I’ve never run off with a stranger.
I’ve never woken up in someone else’s house or wandered into someone else’s room.
Don’t listen, they said.
Journal.
Talk.
Exercise.
Pray.
This time. It wasn’t okay to hurt.
This time, they didn’t tell me I would cry.
But I do.
Everyone has broken dreams. Everyone.
Everyone hurts.
Everyone cries.
Everyone.
But no one told me there would be pain.
He fixed my legs.
He didn’t tell me it would hurt to walk.
He didn’t tell me I would still be scared.
He didn’t tell me I would gradually shrink so small that leaving the house is a very big deal.
He didn’t tell me that.
They took away my classes.
They didn’t tell me that they were taking away pieces of my identity.
No longer a teacher.
No longer “my kids”.
No classes.
Not anymore.
They didn’t tell me there would be no apology.
They didn’t tell me how much it would hurt.
No one told me that my marriage would involve the love of my life breaking my heart.
No one told me that everything I’d dreamed of would be shattered one night all over the kitchen floor.
No one told me that I’d lose who I am.
Not a teacher.
Not a mother.
No one told me that there is no one I can talk to.
Not about church.
Not about babies.
Not about marriage.
Not anymore.
It’s been too long.
I should be past it.
I should be over it.
I should be someone else by now.
But I’m not.
I’m me.
Non teacher.
Non walker.
Non mother.
Non friend.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s not like you are going to be hit again.”
“Maybe you are being protected from further heartache.”
“Maybe you AREN’T the kind of person who should be raising a child.”
“Now you can travel and live your life.”
“Oh…oh…I forgot about you.”
“Just pray. God will always be there.”
No one calls.
No one writes.
They did…I think.
In the first hazy days of grief, they did.
But no one told me that the grief would come in waves.
The grief hit again.
“Broken arm.”
“Broken leg.”
“No classes.”
“No apologies.”
“No babies.”
“I forgot about you.”
“P.T.S.D.”
“Bi Polar”
“This is something.” she told me “You will be living with for the rest of your life.”
She didn’t tell me that my life would get so dark that I didn’t want to be living.
She didn’t tell me that the crisis line would put me on hold.
She didn’t tell me that there are no identifying signs for when my brain is on fire.
She didn’t tell me.
No one told me that there would be no one to talk to.
No one told me that your husband making up his mind is not like losing a child.
No one told me that the grief would be real.
No one told me that it would hurt.
That it still hurts.
That sometimes that little girl with the black hair still calls to me.
And that with no miscarriage, no failed adoption, no actual pregnancy
There would be nothing I can do.
No one told me that.
No one told me that I would end up in the hospital.
That the drugs meant to help me would only make me worse.
No one told me how scared I would be.
And how few people there are who actually care.
No one told me that church would become enemy territory
That I would be walking into a building full of people who never reached out when written to
Who forgot I even existed.
No one told me about the three o’ clock in the mornings.
No one told me that my brain would hold me hostage.
That I would give anything in the world for an off switch.
No one told me how much I’ll have to fight.
I was hit by a car.
I was walking down a hallway.
I was standing in the kitchen.
I was typing a letter.
I was walking into church.
I was becoming someone else.
I was watching my dreams die.
I was given a diagnosis.
No one told me how much the last five years would hurt.
No one told me how great the pain would be.
No one told me I would have to fight.
No one told me how I would be scared.
No one told me I would cry.