At the End of the Seventh Week (damage report)

Out of the fog of wars, asked for and not, comes the final damage report.

The total bill:

1 fractured left jawbone submandibular fossa.
1 dislocated left jawbone condylar process.
1 dislocated left jawbone coronoid process.

The total paid:

1 healed jawbone submandibullar fossa.
1 healed jawbone condylar process.

I don't think the coronoid process will ever heal correctly.

Total bill:

Zero $.
Constant pain in the coronoid process, but bearable and adaptable.

Final result:

No crippling pain.
Unforgettable pain.  The kind of pain every morning and every evening and every time I think about eating.  However, the kind of pain that will remind me to be a better a person.  The kind of pain that is unforgettable and good in its way because it will diffuse further scuff ups and other opportunities to speak my mind whenever I feel like, be it the thrill of getting ice cream or the the assuage of killing off the thrill of murdering someone else because I ... a good deterrent.  There are only so many ways to explain so many things.  This one is adequate.

I can eat.  I can chew.  I can tear.  I can exercise.  I can use the rest of my body.  I refuse to incriminate myself.  And I will not start here.

The healing has been amazing.  I am able to smoke again.  I wake up every morning feeling like a railroad spike has been shoved through my skull from the left side, right up through my ear, behind my eye socket and I've never had a migraine by definition, but this must be close to it.

I choose to let it go.

I choose to move on.

I have to.

Head hunters don't lead good lives.

I am furious and love struck and oh so amber and rose and pink in the joy of being able to wake up with 90% of my function back and if that's as good as it gets, hell baby, I got off lucky.  I will take that and dance and swing hammers and think about the next time and maybe I will strike first or maybe I will disarm myself before what you are carrying becomes an issues, but for fucks sake, it is good to be able to laugh free again.

The final damage report is this:

Mistakes were made on one side.  Mine.  I ate it.  I came out on the other side, tempered and galvinized.  A shorter fuse and a shorter leash too.   I expect less of other people and more of myself.  And that is flipping pretty good for a prognosis of a wire job.

I've known what it is to not be able to speak for days at a time, not because you couldn't, because you were literally locked closed.  A blindness.  I've known unprovoked hate in the shade of unbridled happiness.  Your spectrum is Roy G, Biv.  Mine is unspeakable in its range and color and temperature and length.  It has no name yet and I may not be able to give it a convenient one.

I now have the power to teach, and I will not.  Unless you press me.




///TV on the Radio - (Lovers Day)  of course, there are miracles... the people we think you are.  give me the keys to your hiding place