Scars of the paler pain of survival, received unwillingly, and displayed in the language  of injury

it does not make sense. It cannot exist. It is impossible, and if it isn’t impossible, it is irrelevant. And if it is neither of those two things, it is embarrassing.

Dearest lovely Tumblr,

I have neglected you once again.  I can see now that the ripples of my absence have disrupted the very foundations of the internet.  Psych.

About four months ago I had this really nuts injury.  The sort that alters a persons life forever.  By this I mean in both the physical and mental way.

Physically, for fuck’s sake where do I begin?  I’ll start with the facts: right  as I entered the OR.  I had an ‘incision’ going diagonally from the ulnar bone down the inside of my arm across to the radius.  this ‘incision’  looked more like a giant strip of hamburger meat… or brains… protruding from my arm.  
my hand was ischemic for five hours.  
the median and ulnar nerves were both severed
all of my flexor tendons were severed
my ulnar artery was severed

When I came to in the ambulance the first question I was asked was ‘Are you suicidal?’  Which is funny now… probably only to me.

The point here is, I had an excellent surgeon who was able to salvage a hand that had no blood supply for over four hours, repair a severed artery with a vein graft, sew together 10+ tendons and salvage two damaged nerves. He also performed a fasciotomy, salvaging my whole arm from the elbow down from compartment syndrome. 

that all sounds really nice.
it really is.
I should have a hook for a hand.

Not to mention an infection from (the sort of injury i had) that would steal my hand from me regardless of how expert my surgeon was.  
I should have had a skin graph, but I healed too quickly.

god dammit i should not have a hand, in fact i should have bleed to death. 

Mentally, things are going really well.  Mostly I have learned to live with my injury.  But the future holds questions for me. 

questions of how i’ll deal with questions about my arm 

questions about how i’ll be intimate with other people 

questions of how i’ll hold the child I may one day have. 

It’s rough. 
but I am here, and I am alive, and I have a mother fucking hand. 

how’s  that for fate?

So I work in food now.  Something I promised myself I would never do.  BUT that’s not what is important… what is important is… I remember once writing a blog when I was in high school and it was a response to a question like “are you happy with your life?” I wrote about how everything was okay but it was like how someone left an important ingredient out of the batter of my existence (I was so heavy).  Now all I can think is -that lady is totally going to notice that I forgot to put parsley on her eggplant parmigiana-  and what’s worse?  That eggplant parm is ‘thinking’
-I’m missing something- 

If there really is a god that formed man out of clay I bet he’s like ‘me dammit.. I forgot the x’     

… The man is the eagle that flies.
The woman is the nightingale that sings.
To fly is to master space.
To sing is to conquer the soul.
The man is a Temple.
The woman is the Altar.
Before the temple we uncover ourselves;
before the altar we kneel down …
The man is where the Earth ends.
The woman where Heaven starts.

—Victor Hugo

i know why she don’t like you 

it’s cuz she don’t think you doing what you love 

but she don’t know…

you love what you’re doing.