Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

30 January, 2008

I had walking pneumonia. It started in November and I didn't know what it was. So a month ago I went to the doctor and got azithromycin. And I am still fucking coughing and short of breath. And since yesterday I am coming down with what seems to be a shitty cold on top of all that. So I go again Friday. I wonder if all this is psychosomatic, like every other sickness I have seems to be. Who the hell knows? I sure as fuck don't. Maybe I just caught the creeping crud from one of my students. Anyway, I am seeing the doctor in two days and I will cooperate with her instructions, even if they are more antibiotics. Dammit. I'm also submitting to a full blood panel, despite the fact that they can never, ever find my veins or get me to bleed enough. Last time I had a blood panel, they had to dig and dig to get enough blood to flow and I came very close to puking everywhere. The thought of going there by myself and doing all this makes me want to cry. But I cry every day anyway, so it will be okay.

One day she was able to feel this shame deeply in the session and said: "I feel so ridiculous, as if I've been talking to a wall and expecting it to answer, like a silly child." I asked: "Would you think it so ridiculous if you saw a child who had to tell his troubles to a wall because there was no one else available?" - Alice Miller, The Drama of the Gifted Child

My student, Maya. I talked about her on my teacher type blog. Her mother indicated to me that there has been recent trauma, perhaps abuse, in the home. Maya has been coming to school every day saying that she is sick, that her stomach hurts, that she's nauseated and just doesn't feel well. She has not said a word to anyone about what is happening at home.

Would I think it so ridiculous if I saw a child who had to tell her troubles through the illness of her body because there weren't any words available?

No, I don't. And I think I'd have the urge to physically attack anyone who suggested such a thing.

So maybe I can cut myself some slack.


Today my therapist called my attention to a spot on the back of my neck that was hurting very badly. If she weren't the person that she is, I'd be alarmed at how well she can read my body, just from a glance. Anyway, there is a place at the base of my skull that seizes up hard, like a cramp. Locked hard and shuddery. It happens when I try to talk to people about things that are particularly painful or meaningful to me. And when that happens, I can't speak. She told me that in infancy, when a child is deprived of their basic human needs, this is the centralized place of shutdown. It's the place on the body they use to still their own crying when they learn that the crying will either be ignored or that it will receive a negative response. Ever since I can remember, this place has choked me quiet. I never thought of it as a physiological reaction before.


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