Reconstruct This...

When I was in kindergarten, my class had a little graduation ceremony in June to commemorate our promotion to 1st grade. I remember this because I fucked it up. I simply had to walk down an aisle with my partner, who would turn left to proceed up the stairs to the stage, while I, on the other hand, turned right. On graduation day, however, I froze at the end of the aisle. Right? Left? Crap, I don’t know! I don’t remember learning this part! As usual, I had been preoccupied with more important matters. Like wondering why, Melinda Lacey didn’t think the empty Signal toothpaste box I gave her was cool. (Did she not know it was a sexy new brand?) Or why at our recent field trip to the dairy, the cow I was attempting to milk dropped a load on my new pilgrim shoes with the shiny brass buckles—even though I was sending her my most powerfully positive vibes. (Could she not feel my loving kindness?) Or why my mom thought it would be a good idea for me to go to school with a giant, oozing eye in...

In this image, Lucy’s damage is plainly visible. But in spite of the damage she’s suffered, she is still unmistakably Lucy. I like this image of Lucy because it symbolizes the fact that people can suffer great damage and still retain the essence of who they are. This idea used to be important to me because for years I felt damaged on the inside and was absolutely certain it was visible from the outside. It’s important to me now because, while I no longer feel damaged on the inside, I am visibly damaged on the outside. And I am still unmistakably me. My physical damage—the scars that extend across what used to be my breasts—are road maps that indicate where the cancer lay beneath my skin. Sometimes they piss me off. Sometimes they make me sad. In more lucid moments, they make me grateful and happy beyond expression. I now look different. I now feel different. I now am different. But I am not less; I am more. I am more me. With everything that was taken away from me--my breasts, my yout...