There's another world inside of me...
Jan. 23rd, 2003 12:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chavvahIf blood bothers you, best skip this one.
Today has been a day of many nosebleeds--it's so cold, you see. I hate nosebleeds. I hate being reminded of how fragile I am, how permeable. They are my body's own harbingers, warning the onset of an allergy or asthma attack. And they just plain suck from a social perspective. People hate blood. It's alarming. It's icky. It reminds them of pain, of illness, of injury, of menstrual cramps, for the lord's own sweet sake. No one ever has a good memory associated with the sight of blood. They don't want to see it, plain and simple.
At times like these I particularly appreciate the company of a friend of mine who is blind, and therefore not particularly offput if I sit and chat with her while holding a bloody tissue to my face.
Just now, I've been wondering to myself how many hours of my life have actually been spent in exile, quietly waiting for the bleeding to stop. How much of my childhood and adolescence I missed out on because I was crouched over a bathroom sink somewhere with little twirled-up bits of toilet paper stuffed in my nose.
And it's such tripe, what adults tell you when you're that age. Pinch your nose. Put your head back. And you listen, in defiance of what your own body is telling you, because you trust them. You swallow the blood, even though it's gross. It gives you such a stomach ache that you throw up violently, and the school nurse sends you home, where you lie quietly in your little bed, with a cold cloth on your face, the sounds of your friends' play drifting in through the open window. And you wonder how it came to this.
Or maybe that was just me.
Still, there were moments when I relished the solitude of the girls' lavatory. My teachers knew me well enough that all it took was a hand cupped over my nose for them to usher me out of the room, before the smears of blood on my face could upset the other children.
Sometimes I would slip a book under my sweater before I went, and settle in for a peaceful read. Or I might bring my journal with me. Occasionally I would sing. The washroom always had good acoustics.
So on Saturday I went out with this boy I know... we finished up the evening in a smoky bar, which usually sets me off within seconds. But, surprisingly, I didn't have a single nosebleed. He, however, had a rather copious one, and actually had to excuse himself to go to the washroom.
I think we may be soul mates.
I wonder if that's the real reason I like him so much: he always has tissues.
Today has been a day of many nosebleeds--it's so cold, you see. I hate nosebleeds. I hate being reminded of how fragile I am, how permeable. They are my body's own harbingers, warning the onset of an allergy or asthma attack. And they just plain suck from a social perspective. People hate blood. It's alarming. It's icky. It reminds them of pain, of illness, of injury, of menstrual cramps, for the lord's own sweet sake. No one ever has a good memory associated with the sight of blood. They don't want to see it, plain and simple.
At times like these I particularly appreciate the company of a friend of mine who is blind, and therefore not particularly offput if I sit and chat with her while holding a bloody tissue to my face.
Just now, I've been wondering to myself how many hours of my life have actually been spent in exile, quietly waiting for the bleeding to stop. How much of my childhood and adolescence I missed out on because I was crouched over a bathroom sink somewhere with little twirled-up bits of toilet paper stuffed in my nose.
And it's such tripe, what adults tell you when you're that age. Pinch your nose. Put your head back. And you listen, in defiance of what your own body is telling you, because you trust them. You swallow the blood, even though it's gross. It gives you such a stomach ache that you throw up violently, and the school nurse sends you home, where you lie quietly in your little bed, with a cold cloth on your face, the sounds of your friends' play drifting in through the open window. And you wonder how it came to this.
Or maybe that was just me.
Still, there were moments when I relished the solitude of the girls' lavatory. My teachers knew me well enough that all it took was a hand cupped over my nose for them to usher me out of the room, before the smears of blood on my face could upset the other children.
Sometimes I would slip a book under my sweater before I went, and settle in for a peaceful read. Or I might bring my journal with me. Occasionally I would sing. The washroom always had good acoustics.
So on Saturday I went out with this boy I know... we finished up the evening in a smoky bar, which usually sets me off within seconds. But, surprisingly, I didn't have a single nosebleed. He, however, had a rather copious one, and actually had to excuse himself to go to the washroom.
I think we may be soul mates.
I wonder if that's the real reason I like him so much: he always has tissues.
