It's Monday. I woke up this morning for class, showered, dressed the wound and dressed with clothes. The first of the stitches came out today after coming undone instead of dissolving, with a slight pin-prick of blood from the corona where the stitch came out. I thought nothing of it.
I had lecture. I could not help but wincing occasionally from the pain of things down there. Walking was much more tender than usual. Upon examination, I found that what once was a small looking stitched cut where the stitch fell out of my corona was now once more the gaping crater of flesh I saw earlier during the operation when I chanced looking down. I panicked.
I called Dr. S' office once more, and hurried off to the university wellness center where I had my first appointment in hopes of finding some sort of dermal adhesive with which I might be able to reseal the fleshy crater. Over the phone Dr. S said that the hole should fill in, but that if I wanted to try, I could try to seal the edges together with steri-strips or using dermal adhesive. She seems to really like the word “reepithelialize.”
I skipped my last class, and rushed to the store to find such a product. I chose dermal adhesive. It didn’t work, and burned very badly. I tried again and again for several hours to get things to stick, but to no avail. The gouge is still there, and it bled generously.
Application of steri-strips also failed.
I am attempting to let the wound scab, and hope that such a scab will make the fleshy crater fill in, although after seeing some before-and-after photos on the internet of procedures like mine, I don’t have much optimism at the moment of such working out. At the end of all of this, I will likely still have genitals with an abnormal appearance, but will not be in any more physical discomfort.
Above: the open crater, bloody photo not shown.
This journal is depressing me.
I feel like there is no escaping from my mutilation, and my last ditch efforts to remedy it seem as though they might fail and still end up leaving me visibly and permanently scarred. The pain will be gone, and I wish I could be happy with that, but the scars of my butchers are not so easily faded. Should all of this fall through, I may consider a practice called foreskin restoration, at least to be able to hide the scars.
There is no doubt that my problem is due to a botched circumcision.
I find myself questioning why I am even keeping record of my bitter reflections. Perhaps some part of me plans on sharing this morbid tale. Perhaps I might share this with my children someday so that they know what I understood I had to protect them from. Perhaps I might share this with others who have gone through what I have to share a morbid sense of mutilatory solidarity—a sense of never being alone. Perhaps I will never share this with anyone. Perhaps I shall publish this bitter tome and share this with everyone, and it might someday serve as a comical glimpse into the barbarities of old and how some suffered under the pointless knife of tradition. Perhaps I might share this with my future wife, assuming I ever marry. I hope that this journal can make her understand why I don’t want my children to suffer as I have under that knife.
These metaliteral reflections notwithstanding, I have reached a new thought and horrid reflection. I am no longer sure if I hate my body itself, or if I hate what was done to my body. The line between the two concepts is now blurred to me. I am now suspecting that my penis will always have the fleshy crater in the glans, albeit in a reepithelialized form as Dr. S fondly predicts.
I have expressed my disgust with this to my father. I tell him that my penis looks bad, and I express my sense of hopelessness in this—in that my penis will no longer hurt me any more physically, but I express my sense of defeat in that it will probably never look “normal.” I am beginning to hear regret or remorse in his voice when he speaks to me about this. This is a marked change in his demeanor in regards to this issue.
Before, it was always “it is not a big deal.” Now it is “we might be able to do something about this. I will come to you to help you if I have to. We can make this right.” I am wondering if this new change in him is from my tone of helplessness/hopelessness over the phone, or if the weight of the horrors I have lived with all of this time is beginning to press on him too. I have conceded defeat in this, and it is audible in my voice. I don’t know if he has ever heard such a tone from me, but it must be off-putting enough to shake him.
Perhaps he is changing. Perhaps he isn’t changing. I don’t know anymore. All I know is that I am afraid to fall asleep because I fear I could bleed to death without ever waking. I can't help but think "What the fu** have I done to my body?"
Today, my best friend told me the nicest thing I had ever heard about this ordeal, and what probably will be the nicest thing I will ever hear in regards to all of this. She told me “don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine, I promise.” I tried so hard to not cry at this. I made it out of the Library at night before mutely sobbing over all of this with tears welling out of my eyes through the brisk November winds.