People

So sick of people…

Somebody said to me the other day that I should be the poster child for… and before she could say anything more, I cut her off: “I am!” That woman had no idea what I’ve been through. She was in my cardiac rehab class, so she knew I was obviously in the heart disease department, and I’m pretty sure she overheard that I’d had surgery.

She just looked at me and saw what she thought was a fit, well-put-together, vibrant woman. And I was that day—my stomach was under control, and I was so excited to start back up with rehab and be with the girls again.

And that’s it—it’s all about how I look. But what I am is the perfect fucking definition of never judge a book by its cover. Because this time, the look hides the war.

Everybody’s like, “You look so good, Jaye. You look great!” You know what I am? A fucking beautician, through and through. I’m a stylist—have been my entire life. I know how to put myself together. What you don’t see is what’s falling apart.

If there’s one thing I know—one thing I aim to do when I’m not feeling my best—it’s this: I get the fuck up and dust myself off. I clean myself up, shake it off, do my face, and go about my day. Feeling like shit and looking like shit only makes it worse.

My motto for the business was “Look good. Feel great.” And they absolutely go together. You don’t have to do your hair or makeup—washing your ass, your hair, and putting on clean clothes will do the trick. You don’t have to look like me. I do what I do—you do what you do to pick yourself up.

And just because I put myself together well—whether it’s someone seeing me in cardiac rehab or someone I haven’t seen in a while who’s heard about what I’ve been through—do not get it fucking twisted. My physical and mental health is constantly being challenged.

Every day there’s something. Two to three days out of the week—sometimes more—there’s something going on with me.

I went to cardiac rehab on Monday and everything was great. My stomach was rectified—or at least it felt like it. I still haven’t eaten solids. Today I tried a “Boost” protein drink because I’m fatigued, and nope—my stomach didn’t like it. So now I’m not putting a damn thing down the hatchet except water, and I’m hoping like hell it goes away.

Last night I was sitting around and thought, let me just check my blood, make sure everything’s on the up and up. It had been a couple weeks, and my INR was high—not a little bit high. Three is high. I was 6.1, which means I’m at risk for internal bleeding. Life-threatening. So what did that do to my head? Scared the fucking shit out of me.

I messaged my doctor right away. I was fucking shocked—it’s been under control at 2.2-ish for weeks. One little prick on my finger squirted out a lot more blood than the usual little prick.

I was supposed to go to cardiac rehab today. Was I going? Fuck no. Am I leaving the house? Fuck no. My doctor was off today but the pharmacist called me and I’m not dosing today or tomorrow.

As it stands right now, if I fall down, trip, get banged up—or bang my head—He told to go straight to the ER. And I can’t even tell you how fucking scary that feels.

Monday was great. Yesterday I thought I was on the mend—until I checked my blood. My first Warfarin scare (blood thinner—rat poison, yea, that shit never leaves my head). Well, second, if I count my discharge.

So you know, don’t fucking just look at somebody—anybody—and think, oh my God, her hair is great, her makeup is good, she looks so good. She’s well put together, her clothes look good—but you have no idea what that person—me—is going through inside.

I do what I do for me. I get myself together for me, so I can feel good about myself. That doesn’t fucking mean everything is perfect and honky-dory in my world. Don’t let the lashes and lip liner fool you—this is survival, not glamour.

Yesterday I went out— Queen St. East—I had to hit Bell to upgrade my phone. It was beat to shit, so I had to switch it up. I grabbed a yogurt drink and thought, might as well pop into the bar and say hi to Tash while they were transferring my data to the new phone.

One of the daytime regulars was there and she was like, “Oh yeah, Jaye, I was a nurse…” and then she started graphically showing me how they cut me open. She was using her arms and hands, describing it. Inside, I started freaking out inside—it triggered me. I was trembling and said, “Can you stop?”

But she kept going—waving and twisting her arms, demonstrating how they cracked my chest in half—right proud. I said, “Please stop doing that, OK! I don’t wanna see that!” Holy fuck.

And she was like, “OK, but yeah, I know what it’s like.” Pfft. That was it. I looked at her and said, “No, you do not fucking know what it’s like. You do not. Unless you’ve had your body cracked in half, you do not fucking know what it’s like!”

She got a little fucking intimidated then—backed off, put her arms at her sides, and looked away. Ya, I was in her face by then. But I learned something yesterday. 

People have no idea what I’ve been through—and they couldn’t, not unless they’ve had it done. That’s the bottom line. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve seen in person or on TV. You don’t fucking know. I left there rattled as fuck.

There’s a guy in the hood who had open-heart surgery. When I found out I had to have it two years ago, he gave me his number and said, “I’m here for ya.” I clung to him for a bit back then—with all the questions, every time I saw him.

I saw him on the way out, and we hugged—a big hug. It’s such a different interaction with him than with anybody else, because he knows exactly what I’ve been through. We’ve got a heart connection. It’s the facing-mortality part—the fucking trauma of it all.

You immediately connect with someone when you know they’ve had open-heart surgery—it’s an instant soul connection. Just like when I meet someone who’s had an awakening—and for me, there’s only been one.

I learned yesterday that I can’t be in the company of fools. If she was any kind of a fucking nurse like she said she was, after what she’d witnessed, why the fuck would she sit there grossly giving me a visual demonstration?

I also learned—I can’t be around simple people. Next time, I’ll just keep fucking walking. I don’t have the tolerance for that. So back in my hidey hole I go—veering west in the future. Westbound. All the fucking way west.

It’s easier for me to interact with strangers than it is with people I know these days. A complete stranger has no idea what I’ve been through—it’s a clean slate, just like me. I don’t have to feel the disrespect or see it.

With people I know, I can immediately see what they see in me—and exactly what they’re thinking. I catch it in their eyes before they even open their mouths. Shit, I can smell it—feel the bullshit through the phone. The veil is long gone.

And it’s tough—it’s hard sometimes, seeing that. It hurts. It’s raw and unforgiving. But it’s truth.

A big part of why I’m blogging is because I’m on a crazy-ass healing journey—one you’ve never heard of before—and I can’t do it alone. Writing this blog actually makes me feel less alone, if that makes any sense. I know there are people reading who have my best interest at heart. Others—just for kicks. I don’t study those.

People think that when you’re on a healing journey, you’re all soft, nicey-nice, and forgiving—fuck NO!

Once you’ve had an awakening, the clarity comes, and you see people for exactly who they are.

There are a lot of fucked-up, two-faced people out there—and I ain’t got no fucking time for it. None of it.

This healing journey hasn’t made me soft—far from it. I’ve never been more fierce.