When I lost my breasts and the doctors found another infection during the first attempt at reconstruction (see my post on Losing A Part Of My Identity As A Woman), it was pretty traumatizing for me. I had looked forward to having small bumps for breasts, at least it would have been a start. Instead I had to wait an additional eight weeks to try again as I had to be completely healed from the first try. This meant I had to start my new job bussing tables before my second attempt at reconstructive surgery happened. My chest still appeared to be somewhat caved in where my boobs should have been so I stuffed a bra and went to work.

Lately it seems that with each new specialist/doctor I see I inevitably start crying. I did it with the arthritis specialist, the dentist, the periodontist, OBGYN and the urologist. I was talking to my thereapist about it because it was fairly new behaviour (last couple of years) where I had always been so stoic before. She chalked it up to having had to go through the medical trauma with my breasts and that they still look weird with scars across each breast and no nipples. What she said made a lot of sense to me, and I know I can’t be the only person who has experienced medical trauma; I know I can’t be the only one to cry with each new doctor and/or test.

Currently I am having some reproductive and incontinence issues, hence the specialists. I have multiple uterine fibroids and I am constantly leaking urine. One of the reasons I could be incontinent is the uterine firbroids but since there were also a couple of very small, very minor cysts in my bladder the OBGYN sent me to a urologist for a second opnion and possible biopsy of one of the cysts. Because of past trauma (my breasts started out as just one cyst in one breast) I was acutely anxious and it was obvious enough for the nurse to ask me if I was nervous. Taking my therapist’s suggestion, I started to explain that I have had medical trauma in the past and, of course, I started crying.

The nurse and doctor were great and calmed my nerves but even now and until that biopsy comes back I am still imagining the worst. I watch for the mail every day as I am waiting for my next appointments with the urologist and OBGYN for follow up, and with each day that goes by I need to remind myself that these things take time, especially during a pandemic, and that this isn’t my breasts.

Yup, you read that correctly, I lied to the priest at my first confession, and I’m positive my Catholic friends will find that hysterical. My logic behind lying, maybe not so much.

Growing up, I did not trust adults at all. I felt like I was always at odds with them and on the losing end. I felt like my teachers were not giving my parents an accurate picture of what I went through at school, just that I didn’t put in enough effort on my studies. I felt like most adults in my life would rat me out to my mother just as quick as look at me if I did the slightest thing wrong.

All of this mistrust at the ripe old age of nine. The time came for my first confession. A priest is supposed to keep your confession confidential, right? Well, I decided I would put that to the test. I lied, I told him I was taking drugs. I wanted to see if he was like most other adults and tattle on me. I guess he must have because the next thing I knew my parents were taking me to counsellor after counsellor trying get inside my head. I found out years later my mother wanted to know if I was actually taking drugs.

Out of maybe three or four counsellors there was only one I would speak to but after a while I clammed up on her too. I suspect she repeated something to my mother that I told her in confidence and my mother used it against me in an argument or something.

There were a couple of adults in my life that I did trust (still do) but I just couldn’t bring myself to talk about some of my struggles. Maybe I was afraid they would see me differently, or confront my mother thereby inadvertently getting me into trouble, or maybe I was ashamed because I was told I was shameful, who knows? I do know that trust is still hard for me but I keep on working at it and thankfully, there are a few more people who have been added to my trust circle.

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Before I publish an article to my blog I often ask myself, “is it helpful”? It would be very easy to turn this blog into a perpetual rant-fest, and sometimes I’m temtpted, but then I ask if it is helpful. It’s also something one of my first therapists said to me frequently.

I, by no means, live up to this idea all the time but I try. Asking myself this simple question has kept me in check thereby saving me a great deal of guilt and shame. Does a rant-fest actually help anyone?

There were times I would start going down memory lane and laying out all the hurts that were put upon me in great detail. I would start talking about what a horrible, unlovable person I am. She would ask if that line of thinking was helpful. Of course it wasn’t. She would ask if talking about specific events was all that helpful. My answer was no, not really. Not long after that I started Dialectical Behavioural Therapy in a group setting.

To be perfectly frank, I reccommend DBT to everyone, even if you don’t have any mental health issues. I picked up some new skills that help me deal with spiraling emotions and interrupt my ruminating. I learned to be more mindful of my feelings and how they impact my body instead of going off like a tazmanian devil.

I learned about my disorders and the root causes of them, primarily trauma. I learned to be less judgemental of myself, my thoughts, my feelings and my actions. I learned to use better judgement by accessing the wise part of my mind. I am more careful with my wording and my intent behind them.

Through another group type therapy I learned a lot more about me and my relationships with myself and others. To explain all the changes in one article would be far too much but everything was heading in a positive direction. Every step I took in therapy was paying off but then a few things happened.

I was sexually assaulted by an “old friend”, my son suddenly stopped speaking to me, I had a huge falling out with my father and by extension, the rest of my family. This all set me back a bit but I got right back into one on one therapy and it has been paying off. I did tell her about the whole “but is it helpful” idea and now she uses it too.

Brooding, ruminating, harsh judgements, making assumptions and self-destructing are all unhelpful. Therapy, putting names on my emotions, meditating, yoga, writing this blog and having zero contact with some family memebers is helpful.

Here is a song that reminds me so much of being forced to be the family scapegoat and to keep family secrets, especially when it comes to the secret my older brother.

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I remember being a kid and using the word “gyp” as a synonym for “rip off”. I stopped using the term years ago, not because I realized that it was a hurtful racist slur (it is) but because the language I use to describe things became changed. It wasn’t until a friend of mine posted some information on terms we commonly think of as innocuous but are not, that I began to understand that it is not enough to simply not be a racist, not for me anyway. I would like to normalize non-racist terms to describe people or behaviours.

Take gyp, for instance, it is derived from the word Gypsy both terms racial slurs used to describe people of Romani descent. I used to call myself a Gypsy but I won’t be using that term again to describe anyone else and I even threw out my Gypsy costume. Once I know, I cannot un-know and pretend it’s okay. I equate it to going Black Face.

Some of the adults in my family could occasionally be heard talking about the Indigenous people who lived on a reserve in my area, referring to them as Squas and Indians. I struck these terms from my vocabulary years ago and abandoned old attitudes as I did recognize them as racist when I was younger.

“Long time no see” or “no can do” are phrases I’ve frequently used but I just recently read that they were phrases used to mock the speach patterns of Chinese immigrants or Indigenous people. I recently watched season one of the Lone Ranger. My mind was blown by the blatent use of racial slurs and denigrating language used towards Tonto as well as the script written for the character. Just go ahead and watch an episode, you can find it on Tubi, and you’ll see what I mean.

Eenie meenie minie moe was even racist speach for the original version used the “N” word. I learned to use a different word (tigger, like from Whinnie the Pooh) but I did not stop using the rhyme. It is now tainted for me.

Is it enough to just not be a racist? No, I must learn what is hurtful to my fellow humans and actively change the narrative rather than be a passive bystander who happens to not be racist. I must eliminate terms and phrases born of racial hatred and white supremacy. I must find ways to support equality that are within my means and ability.

Please note this is by no means a complete list. I will keep researching and keep the language I use evolving.

Black Lives Matter

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