this post is a gift to co-survivors... a tribute to their role and their instinctual healing powers when the going gets tough.nights became difficult when I returned home following the mastectomy. with the apartment quite and dark i would become acutely aware of my physical existance. i'd acknowledge the drains entering my flesh, the flatness and numbness when i searched the new landscape. the sensation that i was literally in the wrong body. living someone elses life. aware that i was embarking on perhaps an exhausting journey of re-invention: of my self, my body image, my perspective, my identity, my faith. inevitably this overwhelming mental journey would turn into an emotional landslide and i would weep. i had started to sleep with my walkman in hopes of distraction. one night my twin lay next to me as david gray sang sweetly and privately to me from a "white ladder". though i can be mesmerized by him most of the time- my nightly evaluations were loud and persistant. i wept through the tunes. and the next thing i knew she had reached for my hand to provide comfort. she didn't say anything. just cried with me under the weight of quiet and the possibilities of night.
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