Aliens

“They’re coming…”

My partner said, as I open my eyes from a pillow-nestled nap on the couch.

The ache of preparation was felt to the core of my nervous system, as I reluctantly prepared for the presence of company. Pulling my arm through a mismanaged black Velcro fabric sling. My only aid to the ripped ligaments of cartilage and tissue supporting my left shoulder.

A conscious host.

Despite our injured efforts, the house was still under-par to a standard of cleanliness I found acceptable for incoming guests. An anticipated-unwelcomed-judgment, in addition to the intrusion of “how are you” greetings I was to endure.

I was in no position to sustain standing, but my interest to accommodate the trove of expected visiting friends we were to have, remained. Our living room for two, contained a single well-sat-sunken-in side chair, waist-height triple pillow couch, and a swivel office chair.

Photo re-enactment: “Our living room for two, contained a single well-sat-sunken-in side chair, waist-height triple pillow couch, and a swivel office chair.”

I shifted my body to the left square of the triple-padded couch, sitting up to the best of my ability, making room for the incoming wave of friend arrivals.

One by one, friends arrived in pairs.

Making the arduous, manual stairway trek up to our third-story floor flat. Knocks were heard quietly with each arrival, tiptoeing over the doorstep in dreadful anticipation of our condition. Examining, probing, and contemplating my tranquilized demeanor. The pain in their eyes was an overwhelming reminder of my physical reality. Each individual expression—dissatisfied by the appearance of my uncharacteristically subdued demeanor, gapped explanations from my partner and I of the previous night’s parking lot events, and incomplete police reports.

In the heat of the late Spring season, the residual humidity of our box-frame air-conditioned home felt, revealing. Each wipe of forehead sweat served as a claustrophobic reminder of my discomfort, being seen in a vulnerable moment of physical handicap.

“I need more time…”, I internally murmured to myself.

More time.

To orient my mind to my body’s altered state,

mourning the disconnection from the body,

that was,

to the body that, is.

Photo re-enactment: “Driving through the states by day…My parents were on the way. These starting visitations of examination with friends felt like interludes to the true looming view.”

To invite friends over so close to trauma was a splitting compromise.

Yield to the care of others or hide in healing? Answer questions of shock to the best of my ability or maintain silence in my disgust of being required to answer them?

Watching my partner move through his map of the previous night’s events was numbing.

A hand-drawn diagram—tethered to a school-time wooden-backed silver clipboard; he’d meticulously outlined a grid of our parking lot scene, supporting his verbal recount of events.

With each diagrammed explanation, he added more grandeur and detail compared to the previous visitors—mistaking my silence for comfort.

I felt re-traumatized.

I began to over-compensate for my discomfort with each explanation round of new visitors by going into hyper-hostess mode. A counter-intuitive action, to the rest of my body was calling for.

“—Would you like something to drink?” I’d ask, interrupting my partner's sentences.

“—Can we get you something to eat? I’d suggest mid-story.

I spent my moments of discomfort as a survivor, attempting to comfort everyone else.

It was mentally satisfying to attempt to exercise small characteristics of my typical host normalcy—I had no capacity to physically provide. Actions post offers, fulfilled by my partner and friends in their encouragement for me to rest.

My parents were on the way.

These starting visitations of examination with friends felt like interludes to the true looming view.

Driving through the states by day, my parents arrived late evening in overlap with another paired friend visit—a buffer to the silence of disbelief my parents emotionally held as they entered the confined space of our living room.

The weight of their worry compounded with the urgency of their arrival only peaked the depth of my anxiety. The pooling concern in their eyes and verbal judgment from my father to my partner only solidified the state of their denial for my condition.

Denial of such a harmful event happening to their daughter,

who appeared wounded but able to walk.

Medicated, but present.

My father's core reaction to me in times of fear was to assert further control. A historical, fleeting force of irregular encouragement, on his terms. I could see he was mentally overwhelmed, seeking to move on from the whale of pain consuming his psyche.

My physical pain in the moment, was an opportunity for him to be present and a speed-ordered affirmation would only further bruise the surface of my pain. Acting as a temporary lingual band-aid over a bullet wound to my detachment from reality.

Were the walls suddenly caving in?

“So how are you feeling?”, my mom asked.

“I don’t know how to feel right now…” I said leaning back against the kitchen sink.

“…I feel like my safety was taken by strangers, there was nothing I could do…”

From Jasmine’s personal photos: Photo of Jasmine’s Mom during the museum visit.

The dual caretaking of my father’s masked emotions, and the present-being of my mother, stirred up an inner conflict of rebellion within me. I felt both physically exposed and emotionally discounted by their presence. Exhausted by the requirement to balance their conflicting approaches of support. A dynamic I could barely manage emotionally in a fully lucid capacity, let alone in this moment of trauma.

I needed rest.

The day of visitation was wearing on me. I felt out of form, wearing a weathered body of agitation that didn’t belong to me. I was angry I had to validate my handicap to those I loved. Disgusted, they were now required to use their time and energy to provide comfort to me in something I loathed. Violence.

As we walked my parents downstairs to their vehicle, we made plans for their next day of visitation.

Just my parents and I.

Breakfast and possibly some light sightseeing,

to take in some fresh June air.

“See you tomorrow”, I said to my parents. Followed by a routinely tight hug from my father.

“Oo!”, I winced in pain as he unknowingly squeezed my swollen left shoulder.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” he said as he jumped back.

A wide gust of wind rushed through my left shoulder sleeve, mayday’ing a moment of silent mental processing under the night sky. Time seemed to cave in with my realization of physical exposure outside the protective walls of our flat. The alleyway parking lot felt dimly lit by the trio of ultra-florescent streetlights that lined the neighborhood block.

Physical vulnerability.

“—it’s okay,” I said through a broken smile of tears and gritted teeth, as I reached for my left shoulder with my right hand.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.”, I said grabbing my mother's hand to say goodbye, as my partner and I walked back toward our brownstone building door.

From Jasmine’s personal photos: Photo of Jasmine’s Dad during the museum visit.

The next day held a light agenda.

Brunch was followed by a visit to the city’s premiere art museum. The in-betweens were filled with moments of needing to reassure my parents of my healing while simultaneously being the backseat-tour-guide on our drive through the city.

As we walked around the museum, I watched my parents silently process the purpose of their cross-country visit while viewing the art. The quiet of the museum was a peaceful medium to the warbling turmoil of life-threatening trauma I had endured.

Billboard-sized exhibit pictures and fox-hole skylights, gave a magical sense of wonder to my parents’ stances, as they resisted the unexpected harm caused to their daughter, mentally reconciling the possibility of what, could be.

Who knew my parents were so small?

I saw their youth in the museum. A collided realization that we all, were just trying to figure it out. Despite the maturity of their adulthood, there was no preparation for what was required to heal this trauma.

All they could do was listen, and all I could do was yield.