To The Other Side of Dreaming

on rage and the medical industrial complex

dear mia,

sometimes i become so frightened by the way that you are able to see me. 

you say things like: 

“i see your rage.”

“i see your sadness.” 

i am not used to people seeing me, mostly because i don’t trust others to let them in enough.  i have spent my life forced to bury my anger so deep inside my body that if asked to feel something — anything — most days i cannot articulate what i feel. and if i don’t know, why would i expect someone else to know? why would i believe that i could be anything but alone? in friendships i hold space for the other person without letting the other person hold things for me. this is so i don’t have to feel - feeling means to acknowledge my anger, disappointment, sadness, and the lack of control or desirability i feel many days. and if i did that, where would i be? a sad little puddle of a crip on a floor? i know this is ableist but the last thing i want to be is non-productive, just sitting around in my sadness. everything else may be “wrong” with me but at least i can handle my own emotional stuff. (that’s the on-going dialogue in my head).

but really, i am so angry that my body/childhood was stolen from me. and no one even noticed. 

i am angry that there were so many periods of my life where i, literally, did not have any self-determination. and no one noticed. 

i am angry that society and the system did/does not see me as human. and no one notices. 

i am angry that people i trust(ed) weren’t better. and no one noticed. 

i am angry that even as a kid with loving, attentive parents, our ideas of around my body were so different that at the end of most days, i could only count on me. and no one noticed.

i do not acknowledge my rage to anyone. i keep my fury a few degrees from boiling point. 

stuffing my anger is all related to trauma that i have experienced as a disabled child in the army medical system. i was a child who, because of class privilege and a white daddy, was close enough to whiteness that with a little fixing and determination, might be able to assimilate and have a shot at a “normal” life.  a child who had no control over who touched her. a child who watched my mom have to prove herself to social workers, doctors, and teachers. a child who was sent out of the examination room when it was time for the doctor to talk to my parents about my body. the child, who at 8 years old, knew that i needed to WORK to charm white doctors and build relationships with adults so they would not hurt me. a child who spent my spring breaks alone in hospital rooms while my siblings ate popsicles at home with my halmoni. a child whose earliest memories are of cold metal operating tables and waiting for the anesthesia to kick in. the child who was smart enough to take in a stuffed animal in the operating room — not for comfort — but so the doctors would see her as a child. the child who got so ashamed of how dirty and soaked the stuffed animal got because it showed everyone i cried.  the child who occupied herself with crafts and time with family while all of these horrible things were happening in the name of benevolence and wellness. 

i am trying to open myself, but it feels like i am pulling a never-ending scarf out of a magician’s tophat. i am slowly learning how to recognize my own desire and wants within myself. it is hard work. recognizing these things in me forces me to acknowledge isolation and things that are painful (examples: wanting to be seen as sexual being is connected to all the times i’ve been told i’m monstrous). but i want to do this work so i can know myself better. i don’t want my anger to quietly simmer in every pore and i know this is the first step to the kind of love i want to experience with myself and with other people, like you. 

thank you for being a part of my journey. i love you. 

to the other side of dreaming, 

stacey

60 notes