on Being Seen

“The Sisters Dream of Battle” by Martha Edelheit

Our house is shielded by many trees, and I have a deficiency of modesty (in more than one way). I don’t concern myself very much with whether someone can see me, naked, through the windows of our bedroom. I mean, I still pull the blinds closed in the back of the house after the sun has gone down—I’m not asking for someone to watch me change into pajamas and wash my face.

When I was newly postpartum, I was hyper-aware of the windows in our bedroom. I covered myself, cowered, anytime I was less than fully clothed in front of them, day or night. I wasn’t afraid, but my body was. It was an animal fear of exposure. Too much of me was too soft and too slow; I was just too vulnerable to be seen.

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When this school year began, and I knew I wasn’t returning to the classroom, I told my husband I had to move out of our shared office. I needed an office of my own. I want to build an actual writing career, and that is just outside my wheelhouse. I write, sure. I know how to write poems, essays—both lyric and less lyric—and curriculum stuff. But pitching and publishing is a whole different thing. I can’t do that in full view; again, I am too vulnerable to be seen trying these new things.

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My hip continues to be really fucking jacked up. I told my massage therapist I was going to pursue physical therapy, as it feels not quite like but not unlike what this exact same hip felt like after pregnancy wrecked me and physical therapy fixed me. Weeks later, and I had another appointment with her so I knew I had to make some phone calls to make this plan actually happen before I saw her and she asked a follow-up question. And I had to make those phone calls while also fielding detailed questions from my children about what physical therapy is and why I need it. I had a teletherapy appointment with a doctor to get the prescription, hiding in my (new) home office in the hopes of some, any privacy. I never like it when they eavesdrop or look at my computer over my shoulder or crowd around me as I look at a meme on my phone. But it’s become intolerable now that we all have nowhere to go. Plus, you know, the part where probably some part of what is happening inside my hip is emotional pain. Please can we not talk about my emotional pain.

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I have a phone appointment with a therapist to see if we will be a good fit this coming week. I am some horrible combination of depression and, like, traumatized? I think “trauma” is too strong a word for how I feel now that I am some months away from having to go into my school on a regular basis. Jeff thinks my resistance to using the word “trauma” is proof of how little I can look the problem directly in the eye. Regardless of whether it counts as trauma or something slightly lesser than trauma, I am pretty comfortable saying that my school district is both toxic and abusive. And I don’t know how I’m going to look at myself while in this house under the all-seeing eyes of my family. My family who love and support me, but oh my god, there is nowhere to go. I am vulnerable and I do not want to be seen.

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I feel often now like I felt when I was postpartum and naked. How many tender spots have I carefully plastered over and reinforced? When will they begin to feel less tender?