SweetWitch
Green Goddess
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2005
- Posts
- 20,370
It seemed like a good idea at the time, to meet with friends after work. I was 20, five months shy of my 21st birthday and the college semester was winding down. Finals were coming up and everyone wanted to have one more night on the town before knuckling down for the “final push”.
I was the only one among them to have a job. It was during a time when the world was changing forever for the American Farmer. As my family was included in that elite group, we took a hit as bad as any other farm family. We were set to lose everything. That meant no money for school, so if I wanted an education and food, I had to work.
It wasn’t so bad. School during the mornings, work in the afternoon and evenings and an occasional late-night fun session with the gang—that was life. And it was Friday night.
Being a farm kid gave me an invisible shield. Nothing ugly could penetrate it. We lived sheltered, hidden from the unpleasantness of urban reality. So, when that guy started following me around, I thought it was creepy and weird, but I wasn’t afraid. Hell, it was hardly worth mentioning to my friends, and never to family.
It was a time when stalkers and the like were only discussed in hushed whispers behind hands and knowing looks. We were innocent.
College was in a small town, much like the one where I grew up. It was a safe place, un-intimidating and comfortable. None of us would think twice about being out after 11:00 PM alone, driving to a local bar to meet friends. (I’m one of those rare people who still believe we should be able to do such without fear and that the bad guys are the ones to blame, not society or the victim.)
But that cold, December night, my stalker caught up with me. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea his intended victim was as placid as a cornered badger. There was a fight—one he hadn’t counted on.
My face was broken in that fight. The worst damage was done to my nose. For months I walked around with swollen features and wicked bruises. I didn’t think it would ever heal, but it finally did…
Until the car accident. Just when I thought it was safe to go outside without an inch of makeup spackled on my face, I wrecked my car. I didn’t just wreck, I totaled it. Most of the interior damage was done by my face.
I took out the rearview mirror first. I met it head-on with my nose. My poor, poor nose. Sigh.
When I woke in the hospital to discover my waist-length curls being shaved off my tattered scalp, I started to scream. I yelled at the nurse. I yelled at the orderly who tried to calm me down. I screeched at the cop who laid a pile of tickets on my naked chest.
The doctor also yelled at the cop and ordered him out of the ER. Snerk.
Then I yelled at the doctor and demanded to know why I was being kept in bondage like a sex slave. The poor man blushed to his temples and told me he believed my neck was fractured, hence the immobilization. One of my hands was freed at that point and I raised it to my face.
Where the hell was my nose? I couldn’t find it.
The verdict? My nose was again broken. It was smashed into my face and was going to require being set.
Do you have any idea how fucking bad that hurts? Let me tell you. Imagine having someone shoving an oversized pair of vice grips up your left nostril, grabbing hold of your brain and shoving it out your right ear.
Holy fucking shit!
Then they tell you the worst is over and start picking the glass out of your face. Assholes.
For those who have experienced a broken nose, you know how you tend to bump it on everything. Even the simple act of moving a stray lock of hair (after it grows back) out of your face runs the risk of causing painful damage. It only aggravates the situation and delays recovery.
Well, after that—for years after that—every time I sneezed my nose would get knocked out of “joint” again. Every allergy season, every time I got a cold, my nose would break. It never healed right.
There was damage to the sinuses which left me susceptible to sinus infections and inflammation. I developed a slight snore. I was told it would have to be fixed with surgery.
Allow me to describe for you how they accomplish this. First, they put something that resembles a ring gag between your jaws to keep your mouth pried open and run tubes down your throat for anesthesia and oxygen—you know, so you don’t smother and so you don’t feel the excruciating pain of the next part.
The next part is when they make the incision. This is done inside the mouth, at the gum line above the top teeth, just below the nose. Then they peel your face off. Literally. The pull it up and away from the bone and muscle tissue and crunch, break, slice and resculpt the nose and frontal sinus. Ugh! No way! I like my parts to stay right where they are, thank you.
Fortunately, after only five or six years, the cartilage stopped tearing away every time I sneezed or rubbed my nose too hard. There were still some minor sinus issues, but I ignored it all.
Until this week. For the first time in years, it happened again. I sneezed most violently and wham! My nose broke.
Damn, but I forgot how much that hurts. The cartilage is loose, makes a gross squishy sound every time I touch it. My face is swollen and my right eye looks like someone socked me.
Today, a coworker handed me the number to a hotline for battered spouses. With great pity in her eyes and more than a little anger, she told me how these people could help me escape my situation, that they had saved her life.
My supervisor took me aside and asked if I needed help, if I was in danger at home. A man at the gas station I went to after work told me that anyone who would beat a woman needs to be strung up by his balls and asked if I needed him and his friends to do a tap dance on the guy’s face.
The waiter in the restaurant where I took my daughter for dinner tonight kept staring at me and pointing me out to his fellow wait staff. The patrons gawked. The cook stole a moment from the kitchen to have a look. The cop munching a donut in the parking lot looked as if he wanted to interrogate me. He shook his head as I herded the child quickly into the car.
Now I’m a marked woman, all because of a sneeze. My visage strikes anger into the hearts of onlookers. I’m the new poster child for domestic violence. If those curious observers only knew what would happen to my husband if he ever dared lay a hand on me, they would laugh their heads off and pity the husband.
Tsk.
I was the only one among them to have a job. It was during a time when the world was changing forever for the American Farmer. As my family was included in that elite group, we took a hit as bad as any other farm family. We were set to lose everything. That meant no money for school, so if I wanted an education and food, I had to work.
It wasn’t so bad. School during the mornings, work in the afternoon and evenings and an occasional late-night fun session with the gang—that was life. And it was Friday night.
Being a farm kid gave me an invisible shield. Nothing ugly could penetrate it. We lived sheltered, hidden from the unpleasantness of urban reality. So, when that guy started following me around, I thought it was creepy and weird, but I wasn’t afraid. Hell, it was hardly worth mentioning to my friends, and never to family.
It was a time when stalkers and the like were only discussed in hushed whispers behind hands and knowing looks. We were innocent.
College was in a small town, much like the one where I grew up. It was a safe place, un-intimidating and comfortable. None of us would think twice about being out after 11:00 PM alone, driving to a local bar to meet friends. (I’m one of those rare people who still believe we should be able to do such without fear and that the bad guys are the ones to blame, not society or the victim.)
But that cold, December night, my stalker caught up with me. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea his intended victim was as placid as a cornered badger. There was a fight—one he hadn’t counted on.
My face was broken in that fight. The worst damage was done to my nose. For months I walked around with swollen features and wicked bruises. I didn’t think it would ever heal, but it finally did…
Until the car accident. Just when I thought it was safe to go outside without an inch of makeup spackled on my face, I wrecked my car. I didn’t just wreck, I totaled it. Most of the interior damage was done by my face.
I took out the rearview mirror first. I met it head-on with my nose. My poor, poor nose. Sigh.
When I woke in the hospital to discover my waist-length curls being shaved off my tattered scalp, I started to scream. I yelled at the nurse. I yelled at the orderly who tried to calm me down. I screeched at the cop who laid a pile of tickets on my naked chest.
The doctor also yelled at the cop and ordered him out of the ER. Snerk.
Then I yelled at the doctor and demanded to know why I was being kept in bondage like a sex slave. The poor man blushed to his temples and told me he believed my neck was fractured, hence the immobilization. One of my hands was freed at that point and I raised it to my face.
Where the hell was my nose? I couldn’t find it.
The verdict? My nose was again broken. It was smashed into my face and was going to require being set.
Do you have any idea how fucking bad that hurts? Let me tell you. Imagine having someone shoving an oversized pair of vice grips up your left nostril, grabbing hold of your brain and shoving it out your right ear.
Holy fucking shit!
Then they tell you the worst is over and start picking the glass out of your face. Assholes.
For those who have experienced a broken nose, you know how you tend to bump it on everything. Even the simple act of moving a stray lock of hair (after it grows back) out of your face runs the risk of causing painful damage. It only aggravates the situation and delays recovery.
Well, after that—for years after that—every time I sneezed my nose would get knocked out of “joint” again. Every allergy season, every time I got a cold, my nose would break. It never healed right.
There was damage to the sinuses which left me susceptible to sinus infections and inflammation. I developed a slight snore. I was told it would have to be fixed with surgery.
Allow me to describe for you how they accomplish this. First, they put something that resembles a ring gag between your jaws to keep your mouth pried open and run tubes down your throat for anesthesia and oxygen—you know, so you don’t smother and so you don’t feel the excruciating pain of the next part.
The next part is when they make the incision. This is done inside the mouth, at the gum line above the top teeth, just below the nose. Then they peel your face off. Literally. The pull it up and away from the bone and muscle tissue and crunch, break, slice and resculpt the nose and frontal sinus. Ugh! No way! I like my parts to stay right where they are, thank you.
Fortunately, after only five or six years, the cartilage stopped tearing away every time I sneezed or rubbed my nose too hard. There were still some minor sinus issues, but I ignored it all.
Until this week. For the first time in years, it happened again. I sneezed most violently and wham! My nose broke.
Damn, but I forgot how much that hurts. The cartilage is loose, makes a gross squishy sound every time I touch it. My face is swollen and my right eye looks like someone socked me.
Today, a coworker handed me the number to a hotline for battered spouses. With great pity in her eyes and more than a little anger, she told me how these people could help me escape my situation, that they had saved her life.
My supervisor took me aside and asked if I needed help, if I was in danger at home. A man at the gas station I went to after work told me that anyone who would beat a woman needs to be strung up by his balls and asked if I needed him and his friends to do a tap dance on the guy’s face.
The waiter in the restaurant where I took my daughter for dinner tonight kept staring at me and pointing me out to his fellow wait staff. The patrons gawked. The cook stole a moment from the kitchen to have a look. The cop munching a donut in the parking lot looked as if he wanted to interrogate me. He shook his head as I herded the child quickly into the car.
Now I’m a marked woman, all because of a sneeze. My visage strikes anger into the hearts of onlookers. I’m the new poster child for domestic violence. If those curious observers only knew what would happen to my husband if he ever dared lay a hand on me, they would laugh their heads off and pity the husband.
Tsk.
