The Normalcy Of Veins
CW: Suicide ideology; suicidal thoughts; violence; blood; COVID-19; toxic religion; homophobia; hate-crime mention;
Adjective: normal
1. Conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected
Noun: normal; plural noun: normals
1. The usual, average, or typical state or condition
Oxford Languages
At the time of writing, I posted a story on Facebook last week about a young gay man being murdered for his sexuality. In said post, I explained the necessity of normalizing queer content, of normalizing LGBTQIA+ persons. That, with further understanding and acceptance, I hope violence inflicted upon my LGBT siblings becomes less and less common. I included the link to the full article, to his mother’s GoFundMe, to a video discussing what happened. It did not take long for me to receive a comment. And from that comment, condemnation.
There is nothing normal about the gay, lesbian, transgenderism gender confusion, my grandmother said.
“The best way to prevent blood poisoning is to treat and prevent infections. It’s also important to prevent any open wounds from becoming infected in the first place with proper cleaning and bandaging.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning: Symptoms and Treatment)
As a child covered in scrapes and bruises, my mother always warned me to keep my cuts clean. You don’t want to get an infection, she’d say, making sure my bandage was wrapped up tight. I never truly understood what an infection looked like, I just knew that I had to keep my injuries clean of dirt. Besides–it hurt to get mud into the lacerations on my fingers. It hurt to even stick them under water. I had no interest in getting dirty with bandages wrapped around my skin.
This is not the case for my family.
Many years ago, a trauma of flesh fell upon the lineage. Never once did it get cleaned. Never once did someone wash it. A wrap tied the wound, but it festered beneath that molding cloth.
“Blood poisoning occurs when bacteria causing infection in another part of your body enter your bloodstream.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
With each generation that entered into the familial line, the pain amplified. A lesion cut across the new child’s throat, deeper and deeper with each addition, threatening to, one day, grow too deep. Threatening to take the head off the newborn, the toddler, the teenager. An infection sparked and spread, and it was not long until all veins did what normal veins would: their color changed around the goring location. They brightened beneath pale white skin, they stood worryingly stark against tan and brown flesh. A red sore spread around the brutalization. Even with cloth wrapped tight around the infected member’s throat, those spiderweb veins of deep blue, the seeping crimson of the sore–they spread out from the bandage. They reached for the victim’s heart.
At family meetings, we hand out scarves. New ones each year, to cover the injuries up. It is then that we repeat our motto: We must be a united front.
No one must know the harm we pass down, generation to generation. No one must know we have our own troubles, our own secrets, our own horrible violence inflicted upon one another.
We must be a united front. Together in our sickness.
“Because blood poisoning occurs when bacteria enter your bloodstream in conjunction with another infection, you won’t develop sepsis without having an infection first.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
The week of the first confirmed case of COVID-19 in Idaho, I fell sick. At first, it remained mild, like a flu. I missed a week of work.
Then it grew worse.
One week turned into two. I called my doctor, asked if I could get a test. Despite having almost all the symptoms of COVID-19, I did not have a fever. I couldn’t get tested. I was told to quarantine for another week or two.
Three weeks in, and the symptoms grew grave. I could hardly move around my less than 300 sq ft house. Exhaustion dripped off my limbs, it sapped my strength, it cannibalized my body. My weight dropped to a concerningly low number, and every rib in my chest could be counted.
Four weeks. I tried to go back to work. My head spun as I stood on my feet. I felt too light and my skull felt too heavy. Breathing became a problem. I had to stop what I was doing and gasp for air. I completed a few projects before needing to go home. I couldn’t do more. I felt worse the following days.
Five weeks. I got tested and told to quarantine until I got the results. Weakness hung at me. I laid down all day after I got back and dozed on my couch, worn by the simple activity of going out.
The test came back negative. We ran other tests, checked my lungs, tried to find what could possibly be wrong with me. Nothing came back. Everything was perfectly healthy. And yet I couldn’t breathe.
I went back to work weak, just a day or two shy of being gone for two months. After returning, my boss and father told me, If you weren’t our daughter, you’d be looking for another job right now.
I could no longer work manufacturing like I had for seven years. My body wouldn’t handle it. I moved to customer service. I got dropped in my pay. I got bombarded with family that told me COVID-19 wasn’t that bad.
And my mind told me to end it all. My mind told me to take a saw blade to my arm and bleed out. My mind told me I’d be better off dead.
“It’s difficult to self-diagnose blood poisoning because its symptoms mimic those of other conditions. The best way to determine if you have septicemia is to see a doctor.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
At 12:14 in the middle of the night, I sobbed on the phone to my friend, telling her all. How painful it was to be told after 7 years of working for a company, of making that company great, the only reason I still had a job was because I was related by blood to the owner. I felt useless. I felt worthless. I couldn’t stop the thoughts that popped into my head each time I drove to work, couldn’t help but think things would be better off if my car flipped and I died.
My friend urged me to get help. She sent me link after link to online therapy. I listened. I sought help.
Within therapy, I realized that there was more to the sickness of my mind. I realized generational trauma infected my blood. It infected each and every interaction my family had with each other.
“Prompt treatment of blood poisoning is essential because the infection can quickly spread to tissues or your heart valves.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
The infection had not yet reached my heart, not yet corrupted me, though I feel it lingered dangerously close to ending my life before I got help. I told my therapist the stories I held, the stories that loomed within my mind, told her of things I did not realize were damaging and terrifying. I did not realize the harm caused upon me when I had to defend and rationalize everything I thought and believed. I did not realize the harm that came upon my mind over being talked over and ignored in conversations. I did not see the sickness spread each time I was told that we are family, and we have to love each other.
I grew up learning that, even though one of our family members committed a grave crime, we must accept them. I grew up learning that my safety was not guaranteed if I was left alone in a room with them. I grew up learning that they were both a horrible monster, and a person I must learn to love. They were saved by Jesus. They were saved by Jesus even as they committed the crime over and over again.
“Sepsis is usually treated with hydration, often through an intravenous line, as well as antibiotics that target the organism causing the infection. Sometimes medications may need to be used to temporarily support low blood pressure.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
The first process of healing took place when I sought help for suicidal thoughts.
The second process of healing came with learning to set boundaries.
As I shared stories and recognized the pain and hurt caused by them, I came to realize more and more that these feelings that lingered did not linger without reason. I learned they came from a valid place, a place that needed to be recognized and addressed.
I learned that the normalcy of having abusers in the family, the normalcy of having this kind of familial trauma, was not at all normal.
I was given homework: begin to set boundaries to keep myself healthy. Begin cutting off the infection, and refuse to be wounded again.
It started slow. I gave myself permission to stop being bubbly and overly submissive around my family. It resulted in constant accusations that I was angry, that I wasn’t happy.
I drew more lines in the sand. I began to distance myself from conversations that caused me pain. Discussions about politics cropped up at the dinner table. I finished my meal and left.
More and more lines etched into the dirt. Inch by inch, I cut out the things that did not serve me. Inch by inch, I learned I did not need to act as a united front with a body of harm. Inch by inch, I stopped associating with those who caused it all to trickle down to me.
“With the right care, you can be feeling better in as little as a week or two.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
It took me nearly a year to feel solid again. In that time, I recognized I was a lesbian, I recognized that religion did so much harm to my mind that I needed to take a step back and reconsider what I believed. I moved. I got a raise. I set firm boundaries.
The boundaries I set protect me from comments like my grandmother’s. When I responded to her, I told her bluntly that If the scientific facts that these people exist are not good enough for you, then I will not argue with you further on the topic as there is no use. Do not comment on my post about a gay man being murdered with this.
My grandma retorted that she didn’t say they didn’t exist. Just that they were not normal. I wondered what she thought was normal. Generational abuse? Did she find our family normal? Did she find it healthy?
You are welcome to take your homophobia elsewhere, I replied.
My aunt took issue with this. She called me intolerant, said that my lack of acceptance of someone else’s belief system is religious persecution. I laughed. I laughed because it hurt so badly to be reminded of how vehemently the family must bind together to defend each other. How we must not allow one another be called out for the harm they are spreading. That we must be a united front to the very end.
I deleted their comments.
After all, what do they know of normalcy, when they let trauma infect the fabric of our family?
“Blood poisoning can be a deadly condition. According to the Mayo Clinic, septic shock has a 50 percent mortality rate. Even if treatment is successful, sepsis can lead to permanent damage.”
(Healthline, Blood Poisoning…)
Trauma does not always heal as perfectly as we may wish it to. Much of what I referred to here is not my own story to tell. Much of what I left out is better said by someone else. But what I will say is this: no family should allow abusers to remain within their household. No family should teach each other that this is normal. No family should prioritize the safety of the abusers over the well-being of the harmed.
My intent with this piece is to highlight that trauma stains the whole of the family. And when families decide to protect the identity and safety of the abuser, that family is telling all those within it that their pain, their victimization, is not worth the discomfort of protecting them.
I love my family. But I do not love this idea of a “united front” that only seeks to protect those of us who cause harm and spew hatred to another.
If you are in an abusive household, please seek help. If you are recovering from generational trauma, please, prioritize your healing and find help. There is nothing weak about it. It is a strong thing to do to begin your healing process. I have resources below.
Domestic Abuse Hotline:
Online Therapy:
Suicide Hotline:
Deconstructing Your Religious Beliefs?
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