“How many stitches am I getting?” I asked the doctor. The excitement in my voice startled him.

He laughed, probably not my best idea to get him to do while he has sharp things near my body, but I eased up a bit. Tension was high for me. I was having trouble breathing. I was on my stomach. He was operating on my back and I couldn’t see what he was doing.

Nurses are always surprised when they suggest I turn my head when they’re taking blood. But I insist on watching. I need to see what’s being done to me.

I had a big imagination. If I couldn’t see what they were doing to me, my mind pieced together all sensations and the writer in me would invent such wild suggestions. It was not good on my anxiety.

But mostly, being on my belly made me think of them. The men who held me face down. Their sweat dripping down on me. Their voices either telling me I’m a good boy or that I was a dirty f–. I can’t get myself to write the word. The word I heard too many times.

My husband couldn’t be in the room during the operation. My support person was gone and even though I love my doctor and I trust him with my life I can’t help but feel the panic rise to my throat. I felt helpless.

But I wasn’t.

I made him laugh by asking how many stitches I was going to receive. He laughed at my excitement. I felt better. Laughter. Smile. Everything will be okay.

I was very young when I tried to be a big boy and climb out of the bathtub by myself. My mom went to answer the phone or answer the door. I don’t remember. I don’t really remember anything. I just know the story. I tried to climb out and I slipped and I fell. My chin split open. I screamed and bled a alot. What I do remember, however, is the big deal about how many stitches I had gotten.

5.

There was this huge hype about getting 5 stitches and how I was a big boy now. I look back at the pictures of me with my chin all bandaged up. I still have the scar but I don’t have the memory.

Then, a few years later, I had gotten in my dad’s way helping take groceries into the house from the car. He had grown impatient. His temper had been triggered and he shoulder barged me as he passed me up the cement steps to our back door. The door had been put upside down and the small window was down at the bottom. I couldn’t keep my balance and my right hand smashed into it. I got yelled at for breaking the window. It took them awhile longer to realise my thumb had been torn open. I was staring down at in horror. I could see my thumb bone.

4.

I got four stitches and again the stitches were made a big deal. I got watch fascinated as the stitching slowly disappeared. The memory with this injury would linger for decades. I can still see that door even as I type this. I can feel the looming presence of my tall father as he charged passed me. I can hear the contempt in his voice. I can feel the glass–. I need to stop. I need to move on. That’s not a rabbit hole I should allow myself to fall into.

And then there was the gravel. The dirt. I could taste it. Feel it. I still do. The voice in my head. The slimy backside. The touches. The words. I can dance around it just fine and hint to the details but I cannot go there. I probably never will. And why should I? But the damage that was done I wasn’t even aware about it till much later in life. I was never treated for what was done to me. Instead, I got conversion therapy. Because it was my fault I acted gay.

So later in life, I found a great doctor who I trusted. I still see him to this day. And he told me that the issues I were having weren’t normal. That they could be fixed. He talked about the scarring and the trauma. The specialist was even more sympathising and told me that he can fix it to where I wouldn’t have so much issues, but that it would never be normal again.

2.

It only took two stitches to help correct a lifetime of trauma. I hesitated writing the word correct. Not even fix seemed to work. Because yes, it did solve some issues. It still didn’t correct, fix, solve, reverse anything else the trauma had caused. Trauma. Seems so distant to what it truly was.

The rapes.

Then there was the lung issues I had. I was having trouble breathing. I was coughing. The doctors found a mass on my lungs. I wasn’t even in my twenties for that long. They had to do a biopsy. Nothing came of it. I just had to keep an eye on it. The doctor then told me it was from second hand smoke. My dad was a chain smoker. The house reeked of it. The ceiling was stained tanned near the area he always smoked. The car would fill with it, even if he had his window open just a crack. His choice to smoke. His decision. Impacted me. Not him. He got his joy. I got a lifetime of getting scans done on my lungs because I need to make sure it never grows or spreads. Because then I’d be in trouble.

1.

A stitch below the nape of my neck. A reminder of his choices. And how they impact everyone else but him.

I’ve had all my wisdom teeth taken out. And a tooth that had been shattered when I was beaten. That also took out my appendix.

6.

A total of six scars because I chose to be the person I was born to be. And I trusted the wrong people. And it ended up me shopping at the store and having a group of guys follow me to my car and try to beat the gay out of me. Or kill me. Either way. They didn’t succeed.

So here I am. Today. 3 stitches. Another thing done to be because of trauma from the past. And I am home. I cannot bend. I cannot lift. I need to avoid exercise even though the doctor just had me start a diet and insisted on me increasing my exercise. I’m not sure how well I’ll sleep tonight because I don’t want to tear anything.

3.

I’ve had enough stitches in my lifetime. This is probably not going to be the last. I can only hope. Each time I ask how many stitches. And that small part of me. That little boy that was trained to feel this way…feels proud. I have stitches. They’re so cool.

And then there’s the rest of me. The rest of me that dreads the stitching. That knows the reasons behind each one. Neglect. Hate. Violence. Rape. And I look in the mirror and it’s no wonder I sometimes hate what I see.

I’m just glad I can’t see the scars from all the stitching that has happened in my mind. Though my anxiety, depression and PTSD like to remind me just how much it might be from time to time.