I went to a pulmonary specialist today, to determine why I struggle to breathe and have a chronic cough. I knew before I even walked in the door he was going to say, “Laura, your lungs appear to be 70 or 80 years old. You have got to quit smoking.”
Considering that I tried my first cigarette at age nine, this wasn’t going to surprise me, but what he actually said did surprise me, and it really made me mad.
“Laura, all the tests show that everything is fine, I can’t even tell that you are a smoker. *Dramatic Pause* Do you have a psychiatrist?” (Maybe I shouldn’t have placed that in quotes, because I’m certain he said it a lot nicer than I took it.)
There are two things left that might be causing my shortness of breathe and chronic cough … one is that a blood clot that I mysteriously developed in 2007 didn’t completely dissolve and has caused long term damage. The second is … anxiety.
It may sound demented, but I’m hoping for the first option. The second option means that I still have a lot of healing work to do, that my body and subconscious are storing the memory of evils in my life within. I don’t want those little bastards bothering me anymore.
Some of my anxiety is self-induced, like realizing that I am not an individual capable of being loved by others. Sure, I could ignore that, and move on, but there is something to be said about human emotions and contact.
There are individuals in my life that haven’t had to conquer those things which I have endured, and they say that I should get over it. Move on? Deal with it?
They must think that I enjoy this suffering, that I like to feel the pain when I step out in public … fearing that my past is watching. I am entertained when I drive down a back country road and suddenly realize that I was beaten in this place and though I have nothing to fear, my body fears everything.
I feel like I need to get away, far, far away from the insanity of my past. To hide in perfect sight, to live my life in a new way, that doesn’t include physical memories of the trauma that has brought me to this point.
Over all, I’m thrilled that my lungs appear to be 41 years old, especially considering that my December birthday is quickly approaching. At the same time, I’m rather bummed that the more I heal from emotional trauma the more I realize how intense that trauma really is/was.
Now, if only I could find a way to re-create my childhood, so that I could come to a point in my life where others can love me. Gah … it’s just not worth the effort.