Body

I once nearly died—but I did not experience nearly dying—I only experienced waking up. I was told by many that I should be grateful for not remembering such a traumatic experience, and I believed them. I thought I was wrong in wishing to better understand what happened to me—at the moment of the crash and throughout the following week. My fears of driving seemed to have no validity—I silently hesitated at every green light, and I quietly wrestled panic attacks when I was passenger in another’s car—but I did not speak acknowledgement of my fears. As I had not experienced the trauma, I did not feel I merited such struggles—I felt unworthy of the resulted suffering.

Despite my efforts to overcome the situation, I felt plagued by the desire to remember—to understand. It was a year before I was given an account of what happened that night. It was five years before I discovered I could have access to my medical records. Some people have graciously shared with me their sides of the story—whether of how they found out, or an encounter they had with me in the hospital during my memory gap. These moments have all helped immensely—and I still crave for more—but I know nothing can replace an actual experience.

It has bothered me so much that I have been so bothered, but I am finally starting to understand why. I do not remember the crash, and that is my traumatic experience. I suddenly woke up to a completely different reality! From my perspective, having no memory of anything that happened, that was it—NOTHING HAPPENED. Yet, there I was: broken.

Failing to understand how my life could so radically change without my awareness, I more or less checked out. I felt like I actually had died in the crash—I thought the only thing left of me was a body, and the body was not mine. It could not have been mine—it had weird scars and lumps, and it could not move like mine could. In my efforts to regain physical strength and get my body back, I became hopeless—I could not do what I could before, and as a result, my body became less and less recognizable. I hated it, and I blamed so many of my problems on its lack of perfection (not to imply that I was pleased with my body before the crash).

Over the past several years, I have been learning to accept my body, but that is all it has really been—an acceptance. I was not embracing it as part of me, but a problem that should be hidden—and for this I had multiple reasons. I do not know what happened, but this past week has been incredible. I started crying at two different times when I looked in the mirror. It was not like all of the times before when I have sobbed in disgust at my reflection. For the first time in over ten years, I recognized myself. It was not just an acknowledgement of becoming healthier since the healing of my spine four years ago, but I could see hints of the freely awkward child I was before I became restrained by wounds. I saw me, and I saw myself as lovable and good—not because my appearance was worthy, but simply because that is how I was created.

My body has not returned to how it was before the crash—it is not the same size, and it still has strange scars and irregularities—but it is the same body—it is my own. Over the years, I have had different revelations about the goodness and beauty of my body, but this was an experience. I cannot express how healing this has been already, and I know it is only the beginning. Body image has been a struggle for me beyond associations with the crash, and I know there are many areas that have now been opened for further healing—praise God!