Note: This writing was pre-written to keep things active on my blog. I’m still recovering from my surgery. Thank you for being here while I rest.
Nervous Isn’t Enough
I keep searching for the right word to capture how I feel as this surgery approaches, yet “nervous” doesn’t even come close. Nervousness is what you feel before a presentation or a first date. This is heavier, deeper, more intricate than a single word can contain. It’s a storm of hope and fear lodged in my chest, refusing to break. Hope rises because this procedure offers something I never imagined that I’d see in my lifetime, that is, a chance to slow the progression of my vision loss, to reclaim even a fragment of what I’ve been steadily losing. Fear lingers too, since hope feels dangerous when you’ve lived in a body and a system that often seem to fail you. Alongside it all is grief, a reminder of how much my sight has already slipped away and the countless things I’ve been forced to let go of.
Every step of preparing for this treatment reminds me that trust is a skill I’m still learning. Trusting my doctors, trusting my body to heal, trusting myself to choose well. With CPTSD, trust feels like stepping onto shifting ground and even when I know this decision is right, my mind spins with relentless ‘what ifs’. What if it doesn’t help? What if it makes things worse? What if I’ve raised my hopes for nothing? Logic tells me the benefits outweigh the risks, yet trauma is not rational. It whispers worst-case scenarios and those whispers grow deafening while sitting in waiting rooms or signing consent forms that seem capable of rewriting your future.
I’ve noticed myself trying to plan every detail, believing that control over my surroundings might somehow control the outcome. This survival instinct has carried me for years. I anticipate every discomfort, every piece of paperwork, every ride to and from the hospital. These lists make me feel safe. Yet part of me knows this is beyond any checklist I could create. It requires surrender, and surrender has always felt foreign to me. I am used to being the strong one, the one who anticipates everyone’s needs\ and the one who doesn’t falter. Now I am stepping into a chapter where I will be completely vulnerable, unable to see out of my right eye as it heals, needing help for the simplest tasks. It is humbling, frightening and strangely liberating. Vulnerability, I am learning, doesn’t diminish strength; it reveals truth.
Despite the fear, there is a thread of quiet excitement weaving through this experience. I want to see this as a turning point, not only medically, but emotionally as well. If I can get through this and trust enough to let others care for me, perhaps I can finally loosen my grip on the belief that I must always be strong. This surgery may not just restore part of my sight; it may also change how I see myself. The future remains uncertain and I cannot predict what I’ll wake up to after the operation. What I do know is that I am walking into it with as much courage as I can summon and courage has never meant the absence of fear, however, it has always meant carrying fear with you while stepping forward anyway.
Mystic Anomanly 