This is my fight (song) right at the moment. It feels like I am fighting all the time, which is a little ironic because I can’t stand fighting.
Put a television scene of any form of violence in front of me and I visibly flinch. I can’t bear to watch so will look away, to the extent of moving my head AND covering my eyes. I just can’t face (excuse the pun) it. Whether it’s violence against human, animal or if it is being self-directed, I can’t go there.
Even violence conveyed as sport is too much, and perhaps that’s why I am a rare kiwi who doesn’t like rugby. There is just too much violence in the game for me.
But then there is one type of violence that I don’t flinch at, and that is when I direct violence at myself. I’m not talking about self-harm, although as I’ve written often enough, it is a battle I lost for many years. It’s not even violence per se that I am referring to, but rather a fight.
I’m fighting my body right at the moment. Imagine this:
An about one inch (two and a half centimetres) below your eye is a one inch round lump. But you can’t see it when you look in the mirror. No one can see it, but if you feel around your cheek with your fingers, you can feel it. It’s solid and it feels enormous. Only you and your doctor know it is there. To everyone else, it can’t be anything because they simply can’t see it.
Yes, I am talking about myself. The lump is on the left side of my face, and it’s really doing my head in. I first went to my doctor about this about nine months ago. She told me that it didn’t matter and that no one (she meant specialists) would remove it because there were more important matters to deal with. I’m not exaggerating.
Well, that doctor and I parted company not long after. It wasn’t the off-hand way she dealt with this and another issue, but rather her inability to understand sufficient English language (my native language). We were constantly struggling to understand each other. I was seeing her because my previous doctor had retired, and I was given little choice. But it got to a point when I realised it was REALLY important that I have a doctor fluent with my language. It sounds silly, until you end up in the situation.
Anyway back to my fight. My new doctor has recently referred me to a specialist to get the lump removed and analysed. Great. (It took me a while to raise the issue again, after being fobbed off the last night.)Although the New Zealand Health System can operate at a very slow pace (usually when you want immediate results) and I have yet to learn how long I might wait.
Meantime I am fighting with myself, because while no one else knows, or wants to know, how important the immediate removal of this lump is to me, it is tearing me apart. In addition to being able to feel the lump in my fingers, I can now simply feel that there is ‘something‘ on my face and the need to get it out is at times unbearable.
I admit I have always been a ‘picker’ (not quite to the extent of dermatillomania ever being diagnosed) and I have a great deal of trouble letting lie any perceived imperfection on my skin. I struggle to let any wound heal itself without needing to pick at it. As early as I can remember I would frustrate my mother by picking at my childhood scabs and so it would take longer to heal and leave a larger scar.
This picking was perhaps the innocent start of my self-harming days. When mental illness started to take over, I simply became more violent and picked up a blade.
Do you see the problem? There are times when I just want to rip this lump out, but a rational me doesn’t because… well, this is my face and I could make a terrible mess. Sadly, other times I don’t feel anywhere near as rational as to be able to caution myself.
I did tell my doctor of this. I didn’t want to confess to her lest she choose to send me direct to the nearest psychiatrist rather than a plastic surgeon. But she needed to know how urgently I need the issue addressed. Knowing her as I am getting to, I doubt it would make much difference. I just doubt she understands how volatile my mental well-being can be. She has never seen that side of me, and I’m sure she hasn’t had time to read back 20+ years of medical records.
And so I fight, even humming the tune. I fight to be rational about this. I fight to protect my face from unnecessary injury. I fight to preserve what mental health (health not illness! There is a difference.) I currently have.
Every time I do something (or don’t do something) to preserve that mental health, I win. No one else sees the lump. Or no one else sees the fight. But it’s in me, and I will win. I have to.
And all those things I didn’t say
Wrecking balls inside my brain
I will scream them loud tonight
Can you hear my voice this time?
This is my fight song
Take back my life song
Prove I’m alright song
My power’s turned on
Starting right now I’ll be strong
I’ll play my fight song
And I don’t really care if nobody else believes
‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me
[from ‘This Is My Fight Song’ by Rachel Platten]
Has this been a completely weird post? Perhaps. Certainly, my mind has gone everywhere while I’ve written. But then, for me, that’s exactly how it is. I hope you’ve been able to follow me. One final note that sadly, this is not the only lump which my body is fighting right now. More about the other one in time.
Thanks for reading