You know how when you watch a horror movie and some bobble-head who was just having slutty sex with her football captain boyfriend decides she's going to investigate the maniacal laughter emanating from the darkened basement without telling anybody where she's going, without a flashlight and or light sabre, and dressed only in bra and panties, and you're thinking, like, oh dear GOD. DON'T GO IN THE BASEMENT. Followed immediately by, I would never do something so stupid...
We've all been there. And by there, I mean yelling at our TV screens as opposed to being on the verge of dismemberment because we foolishly had premarital sex and then decided to check out the basement armed only with our panties.
My point is, we all assume we know what we would do and how we would feel given what should seem like some pretty cut and dry circumstances.
I used to think that, but now I know I'd probably be the idiot having my head chopped off in the basement. I'd definitely be the idiot having slutty sex with the football captain.
In a way, I recently experienced my own horror show. I survived. As per Dr. Q, I did so "kind of by the skin of the teeth," but here I am nonetheless. As one commenter on my blog put it, the universe sent me a bitch-slap of a wake up call and now I need to do something about it.
(To my commenter: I would agree, you may have watched too many Oprah reruns. That's OK, I love you anyway, and agree with you. Actually, I read her magazine every chance I can, which is worse than watching the reruns. Her new show Oprah: Behind the Scenes is fantastic by the way. I've somehow become hooked on Oprah 25 years after the party started and subsequently closed down. At any rate, your comments were exactly what I needed, when I needed them...so thank you.)
The problem wasn't that I had survived something that could have just as easily have left me with a mild case of decomposition, but that I wasn't doing it right. Surviving that is.
I have always believed that when faced with a near-death experience, a normal person would automatically feel blessed, and so much MORE alive for having survived.
A normal person wouldn't take another minute for granted, would realize what mattered most in her life, and would seize every day like it was her last, having had the fact that future days aren't guaranteed bitch-slapped right into her.
In fact, it's not uncommon for people having survived some pretty bat shit circumstances to wake up the next morning and completely change their lives. How often have you read some survivor story profile (probably in O Magazine) that says something like:
"As soon as that airplane toilet was sucked out into the stratosphere with me still on it, I just knew I was in trouble. As I flew through the air, I thought about my family, my children, my friends, and all my dreams and hopes for the future. Right before the toilet swung around and knocked me unconscious, I remember thinking that if God/Buddha/Allah/Sweet Baby Jesus/Grown Jesus/et al. would just spare my life, I would be a totally different person and would never waste time complaining again! Since I landed safely on top of a Bouncy Castle with my pants down at 150 mph, I can honestly say I am so grateful for every day, and am living life to the fullest. I left my kids with their father, and moved to Portugal where the men are hot and the drugs are legal."
Or something like that.
The point is, surviving something is supposed to feel lucky. I wasn't feeling lucky, and I sure as hell wasn't feeling grateful either.
I really wanted to feel both. I desperately wanted to feel grateful and happy to be alive. Not just happy - I was expecting meadow-twirling levels of exhilaration.
Needless to say, what I actually felt was a bit of a letdown in comparison. Admittedly, there have actually been moments where I was pissed. Pissed right off that I lived.
Clearly, I'm a survivor failure. Just continuing to breathe should be simple, and yet I've been fucking it up.
However...I'm done with this too.
Frankly, I will never feel lucky because of what happened. Being raped, horribly injured, left untreated, and then horribly injured even further isn't lucky. It's terrible. Lucky is winning the lottery - not an exploding vagina.
My life circumstances didn't immediately change because I kept on breathing. They're not going to, unless I change them. This may take some effort, but I'm still breathing, which is one less thing to have to work on at the same time. I can't imagine things would be any easier if I were deceased.
I have no idea what my life purpose is, but I can think of at least three people that I annoy greatly. Since I don't like them either, my continued ability to annoy them still counts for something. It may not be much, but I'll take it.
Also on the good news front, the indomitable Dr. Q has declared me, "perfect." He wanted to know if I had had sex yet, and I told him he was crazy, particularly because the last time I asked about sex he had made it sound like I could only ever have the most boring, terrible, passionless sex imaginable and even then the man would have to have a very small penis. Hardly seemed worth it.
Apparently that's not exactly what he said word for word, but nonetheless, he revised his opinion following my very last exam. I am perfect, there is nothing wrong with me, and I can have any kind of sex I want. Not even another doctor looking at me could ever tell what had happened. Only...how important is anal?
To which I replied, what if it's the most important thing ever?
Really..?
No, I've never tried it. But what if I wanted to?
Fiiiine. Go have anal. Just be careful. And with that, Dr. Q shook my hand, said good-bye, and went on to his next patient.
And so to summarize...don't be an idiot by checking out the basement. If you do, put some clothes on. I'm not feeling lucky but I'm feeling better. Also, anal sex.
That is all.
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