I love make up.
I am a girly girl who lives and dies for the sparkle, the shimmer, the gloss, the gleam, the bling, the shiny and all things that are wonderfully and magically feminine.
Lately, I haven’t been feeling so girly.
Since my hysterectomy, it has been hard for me to jump back on the “Sparkle Wagon” as I call it and make myself fabulous. It’s been a real struggle. A chore for me. Even showering is a process. Bending over to shave my legs is a true production as I can feel the incisions in my abdomen tugging hard to the point where they feel like they are going to snap. Showering usually exhausts me to the point where I don’t feel like going out any longer.
The other day, in the mail, one of my dear friends, a fellow blogger who shares my love of all things make up, sent me a pallet of eye shadows, cheek tints and a nude lip gloss. Just something to brighten my day and make me feel “gorg” (as she put it) after all the shit I have been through as of late. Well, I played with those eye shadows in a gazillion different color combinations on my arm til it looked like one big long bruise.
You know, when a bruise is healing? All those crazy colors; purples, yellows, greens, blues, blacks.
And when I realized that, I scrubbed my arm clean. It brought me back to a time in my life where I had to rely on cover up, thick, copious amounts of cover up, to cover up bruises that were given to me by someone who claimed they loved me. As I was washing off my arm, still staring at these glorious eye shadows, I wondered why…why would I be thinking about something so terrible out of nowhere when just five minutes earlier, I was in girly girl heaven?
Then, I realized. 20 years. This November will be 20 years since someone tried to end my existence on this planet. 20 years since someone beat me into a coma with a baseball bat in front of my 4 year old daughter. 20 years since doctors told my parents that I may not come back from this and if I do, I will probably have severe brain damage for the rest of my life. The “anniversary”, if you will, of one of the worst moments of my entire life. I suppose it had been brewing just under the surface in me for awhile. The night before receiving this wonderful present from my friend, I had had a very restless sleep. At one point, my husband had to wake me, because not only had my sleep been fitful, but apparently at one point, I ended up flailing about, punching him violently and screaming for whomever I was dreaming about to “leave me alone, leave me alone…stop!” My husband shook me awake. “It’s me, baby…it’s me,” he said as he slowly brought me out of my tortured slumber and back into reality. I stared at him for a minute, still confused and somewhat dazed.
“It’s me,” he said again, softly.
“Okay,” I nodded, understanding that he was reassuring me that I was safe. “Okay.”
I curled back up on his chest and went back to sleep.
It’s peculiar to me that even 20 years later, the silliest of things can trigger me. A certain scent. The sound of a man’s voice when it is particularly gruff and laden heavily with a thick, italian accent. There are specific sounds that make me jittery, like the sounds of footsteps on a wooden floor, especially if that wood floor creaks. There are certain actors I can’t watch on TV or in the movies who remind me of my abuser and even if the movie is supposedly “sooooooooooo good,” I will still avoid it like the plague.
The day after I got my friends gift, I went back into my bathroom, and played in front of my mirror again, combining golds with peacock blues and and lush, rich purple shadows. And it became fun again. The joy was restored because those other shadows, the kind that hover over you and wake you from restful slumber…the kind that haunt your thoughts and dreams, the kinds that are long, tall and ominous? They eventually go away. And they are replaced by 16 pots of beautiful eye shadows sent with love from a gret friend. A silly soap opera palette called “The Balm and the Beautiful”…with names like “The Other Woman”, “The Drama Queen” and my personal favorite, “The Perfect Man.”
However, I think I will steer clear of the one called “The Coma Patient” for a little while.
Hits a little too close to home. 😉