10:05 am ][ i thought he ruined me.

Heck, I had plans for that little black dress in the back of my closet!

I contemplated surgery.  But the thought of hardware irritation from the pins, plates or screws installed into my body made me fearful.  I  decided against the surgery and opted instead for a permanent “shoulder tent”…the clever nickname assigned to broken clavicles by numerous websites.

For the next year, my hand made contact with my neckline more times than ever before.  I would push down on my lump slightly; hoping that it would magically snap back into place.  I practiced arching my shoulders and neck in the mirror for hours; hoping to find the perfect positioning to disguise the hideous thing.  Whenever I thought myself successful, a friendly face would pop up and remind me that I was sadly mistaken.

“What’s wrong with your neck?”

…people would ask me with their heads cocked dramatically to the side.  Or my favorite

“Oooh!  I’m a nurse. That’s a broken clavicle isn’t it?!”

…as if a game of jeopardy.  I didn’t know what hurt more: the superficial cosmetic losses that accompanied my new lump or the absence of the man responsible for it.

The events that took place that night, both prior to and during the accident led me to believe that his feelings might match my own.  The panic in his bloody face as he peered down at me from the drivers seat.  The anxiety in his voice while asking me repeatedly if I was okay.  The pet names he spoke unconsciously as strangers helped me out of the totaled car.  The sweet messages we relayed to each other from our hospital beds.  For a moment, I was sure that he cared.  But the events that took place after the accident convinced me otherwise.  And although he would utter those heavy three words while leaning against my bedroom door months later, he wouldn’t mean them.

But the man who took his place during my recovery, did care.

With every question about my collarbone, I was reminded of him.  With every physical therapy session, I was reminded of him.  With each medical bill dropped into my mailbox, I was reminded of him.  And eventually, every kiss to my neckline would remind me of him.

The struggle of getting over someone with such a physical reminder of them attached to your body is insane.  Mix that with a lack of self love, a confidence deficiency and an obsession with love…and you have a recipe for disaster.

I thought I would never stop touching my neck, just like I never thought I would stop caring for him.  But as the years went by, I hardly noticed my lump.  Just as I hardly noticed his absence.

Scars heal.  And although remnants and memories of their formation might remain…the pain doesn’t have to.  Don’t let someone’s negative impression on you last longer longer than their presence.  Learn from your accidents and grow from them.  And the next time someone asks “what happened,”  proudly let them know “I survived.”

Nosie Josie  JE20