Final Essay

Jordan Anders

Final Essay

English 3060J

April 29, 2014

How a Straight Spine Led to a Curved Life

“You have Scoliosis.” Imagine hearing those words as a confused 10 year old. The word sounds serious but everyone, from doctors to your parents, assures you it’s not. Just a curved spine that is easily fixed! Then four years later, at 4:30am, imagine waking up in a hospital bed in pain after having 15 pounds of metal inserted into your spine. Learning how to walk and do basic tasks all over again. Or looking into a mirror and sobbing hysterically. As a freshman in high school, this issue affected not only my body, but my mental health as well. My whole world was crashing down. I was different and what high school freshman wants to be different?

According to the WebMD, Scoliosis is “a lateral (toward the side) curvature in the normally straight vertical line of the spine. When viewed from the side, the spine should show a mild roundness in the upper back and shows a degree of swayback (inward curvature) in the lower back.” In the fifth grade, every student was required to stand in front of a nurse, bend over and touch their toes. The nurse then checked to make sure the student’s spine was regular. At my appointment, I was told to meet with my pediatrician. From there, I was referred to a specialist who then fitted me for a special back brace. At this time, I was in middle school. Walking around with a giant brace around your body isn’t ideal during the time period where wearing the wrong shirt will get you ostracized. I began wearing it when I was sleeping, which lead to a long battle with sleep issues.  I could not catch a break. However, as I got older, the curve worsened. I was then told that what was once a slim possibility was a reality: surgery.

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The surgery for this is called a spinal fusion. Mine was supposed to be a 12 hour surgery that involved straightening my spine, then putting metal rods and screwing bolts into my actual spine to keep it in place. At the time, I was (in my mind) a healthy 13 year old. Now, every time I looked into the mirror, I saw all my imperfections. I noticed my slightly slanted shoulders, my extremely short upper body and my clumsiness. My classmates had teased me about it but at this time, the comments intensified. The age of 13 is about the time that women begin accepting their body image. When you are being told everything that is wrong with you at that age, it can destroy any self-confidence, and mine was nothing short of gone.

The period after the surgery was a test of not only my strength, but my parent’s strength as well. I never spent a moment alone in the hospital between doctors, nurses and my loving family. One could say my support system was perfection. My mom quit her job to take care of me for an entire summer. I couldn’t ride in cars without taking pain medication for over a month, couldn’t drive and had to take medication every four hours. My parents were smart enough to slowly wean me off of prescription painkillers so it didn’t lead to a crippling addiction, which I am thankful for. They were my rocks, and I could not have asked for better parents in this very moment. However, being completely dependent on another person is a humbling experience. Every child goes through a period of resenting their mother but mine was different. I would hear my friends complain about their mothers being too overbearing or being “mean” to them because they were not allowed to do anything. Of course I went through those teen moments with her, we had a different relationship than most teenage girls and mothers do. Because I couldn’t travel, I depended on my mom for everything, including friendship. While I still had friends afterward, some of my friendships changed.

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Before the surgery, I was an active teenager. I played soccer, ran track, danced and played violin. Most of my friendships revolved around locker room jokes and recitals. While my friends visited me in the hospital, I could no longer participate in these activities. Friendships, socialization, and schooling is key for my age. Due to the lack of all three, I was at a loss. I wasn’t allowed to run for six months and was banned from any activity that involved a form of physical contact. When I was allowed to return to school, I realized how much distance my surgery has created. I was no longer privy to the inside jokes that were created at practices, sleepovers and other things. Being on the outside looking in after three short months was hurtful. I know they weren’t intentionally bullying me, but I stopped having a place of belonging. While violin was something I picked up because I wanted to learn music, it became an escape of some sort. I could still play violin while I was recovering since it required minimal physical movement. It also gave me another outlet I couldn’t have imagined.

Music and its healing properties have been studied for years, which is why musical therapy programs are showing up in more colleges. For me, music saved my life. When I played violin, I got lost in the melodies, the notes and the finger positions. Getting the music perfect was something I could control, which was important since everything in my life seemed to be in the hands over others. Not only that, but I was finally good at something. While I enjoyed dancing and running track, I was never the star of the team. In orchestra however, I was finally the team leader. It gave me another group of friends to be around, ones who could understand me. I also reconnected with my pre surgery friends. Before I knew it, I was in the in-crowd. I had plans on weekends, went to football games and after parties, had friends to study with. As wonderful as my newfound talent and friendships were, the self-loathing from my surgery continued to grow. Every time I had to take a painkiller because of my spine, I hated myself. I hated my parents for forcing me into the surgery, for having such an imperfect child.

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While I had friends, male attention was nonexistent aside from a few random hecklers when I would venture outside. Because everything else was seemingly perfect in my life, I blamed this lack of male attention on the one thing I couldn’t control: my imperfect body.

In Sierra J. Reilly’s essay, “The Black Beauty Myth”, she discusses the struggles of black women coming to terms with body peace. As a black girl growing up in the upper middle class like me, she too struggled with accepting her body peace. I was exposed to different countries and people from the time I was born. Growing up, my parents forced me into books, art and music. I had no interest in makeup, which made my mom happy because she didn’t want me using it to cover my imperfections. Looking put together was important to my mom, but she never forced me into thinking that being “beautiful” was the most important thing. As I got older and started following pop culture, I noticed that the women my friends idealized were curvy, with big thighs and big hips. Walking through the hallways at school and seeing all the couples didn’t help. Boys ran straight for the curvy girls, calling them “thick”. I couldn’t have been farther from the type. I have been thin my entire life, aside from the breast department. I was blessed with my mother’s abnormally large breasts on a stick thin body. Because they weren’t the body part black men seemed to find the “sexiest”, I tried to hide them as much as possible. Between sports bras and turtlenecks, I tried to make them seem as invisible as I felt I was. While my friends focused on losing weight, I tried gaining it. My efforts failed miserably because of how active I was. Thanks to my Attention Deficit Disorder, I couldn’t sit still. I would run outside, bounce around dancing awkwardly or clean. Once again, my body stopped me from attaining my goals. I watched enough after school specials to know how unhealthy physically punishing your body is, but what they don’t tell you is that the mental abuse is far worse. My body issues had finally led me to rock bottom: depression.

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When I was diagnosed with depression originally, my mom refused to have me medicated or seen by a mental health specialist. Without intending to do so, she fed into the mental health stigma. She, like many other people, believed that depression isn’t that serious. That it can be cured by exercise and eating better and prayer. While all of those things can help, medication and talking therapy are two important factors. In the black community, mental illness is a taboo topic. We were raised to be strong, independent and successful. A mental issue is a sign of weakness, so people hide it, push past it or try to pretend it doesn’t actually exist. Society puts these negative stigmas on mental health, making the ones who are associated with a disorder feel crazy. Mental health is a serious issue and for most, they do not get the help they need. Living in that environment a year after my diagnosis made me feel trapped, unloved and broken. Then, my life changed for the better.

Attending college was one of the best things I could have ever done. I attend a predominately white school, but I am still surrounded by all walks of life. For the first time, men found me attractive. Instead of being the ugly misfit, I was attractive in male eyes. I had my first date of all time during my freshman year of college. While I haven’t been in a relationship, I’m taking things slowly and enjoying these new developments. My friends told me how much they wished they had my body and I began slowly accepting myself. The biggest thing was just how many of my friends dealt with mental illness. I was surrounded by others who had ADD, ADHD, anxiety disorders etc. The most shocking thing to me was that they were open about it. I finally had people to talk about my depression with who wouldn’t judge me. Now, when I’m having bad days, I have friends that check on me and make sure I’m eating and not alone instead of catty high school girls who tease me. While I’m not completely cured, being in such a welcoming community saved my life in more ways than one.

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Mental health is becoming to be more serious in the eyes of our society day by day. People with a disorder are not being defined by the disorder, but simply getting the help they need to overcome it. As a child, going through all of the issues I faced made me into the woman I am today. I have struggled with emotional, physical, and psychological difficulties, but I can now see the silver lining. My support system is amazing and I could not have done anything without them. Depression is a serious illness and with the right help, one can go about their day and live a “normal” life to our society’s standards. I am still living with depression, but I have the right resources to help me along the way. Growing up with an illness and being ostracized for it has put a whole new perspective on life for me and I know that I have become a more humble being and have more compassion for others than I could have ever imagined. I do not hate my illness or what I have gone through. It has made me a better person and given me a more open mind. Overall, I am improving day by day both physically and emotionally, which is all that matters.