The Year of the Dead Rot

This is an old trauma, but I intend to write about ALL of the traumas here.  In part because people keep telling me I should write the story of my life, in part because – who knows, it may be therapeutic? – but mostly because I can. I am writing these as they occur to me, and in no particular order.

My aunt, I’ll call her Aunt Francie, was every bit as crazy as, no probably even more so, than the rest of my family. Let that sink in for a moment.

Later, I will write another blog entry devoted entirely to her, in which I will detail the attack. This post is devoted to the aftermath of the attack, which I call, not only in this blog, but in my mind as well, the Year of the Dead Rot. I could have lumped this into the overall trauma of the Aunt Francie blog entry, but it was horrible enough that I believe it deserves an entry of its own.

I don’t want to get bogged down in details here, as I said, the story of the how and the why will be detailed in the Aunt Francie entry. Let us just suffice it to say now that things transpired in an unfortunate enough of a manner that her fat, meaty fist broke the three-day old bone graft that had been done in Dallas, an alleged effort to repair my bilateral cleft lip and palate. This is about the year that followed the attack.

Since she was inclined to beat me 3 days after a major surgery, as soon as I could walk again I ran away from home. I went through 6 months of homeless hell in order to finish high school, but I managed it; I got my diploma and then I moved back to the town of my conception and birth in order to see if the surgeon in Denver who had done the initial repairs on me when I was an infant could fix the mess that my aunt had made.

He tried, but he couldn’t fix it. Prior to his attempt at repairing the mess, I had spent about 8 months decaying and apparently that was just too much.

Yes, literally decaying, hence the name of this blog entry.  For months I was picking chips of bone out of my gums and out of the roof of my mouth. The bone chips were working their way out and bleeding and hurting and stabbing and aching and making me raw. My gums and the roof of my mouth were this sick, dead, grey stringy dead-animal smelling shit. It didn’t even look like mouth flesh. Let us just never mind the dead animal smell that emanated from my mouth… 😦


Let me tell ya, it was a great way to wrap up my Senior Year… best years of our lives!! 😀

The bone graft that the Denver surgeon had done to try to repair the bone graft that my aunt had busted in Dallas was a failure – the only thing that was accomplished was long-term nerve damage to my leg (because he had cut bone out of my hip to graft into my face). So then, I got to repeat the process of decaying and bone-chip picking! It was less drastic the second time around, as I was under his care and he took care of what he could and prescribed me the medication that prevented me from full-blown rotting again, but it sucked, very badly, nonetheless.

So went the Year of the Dead Rot.


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