Pieces of me, quietly destroying me

a short story on clinical detachment and the cut-wide-open aftermath of a breakup

Listen here:

***

I’m supposed to get a punch procedure done tomorrow.

It’s not my first punch procedure, but it’s the first one I’ll get on the supple skin of my inner thigh.

The word that comes to mind is grisly.

Every single time I go to the dermatologist, they take a piece of me and charge an exponential amount of money for it.

They know which pieces have turned against the soft animal of my body.

Little pieces of me, quietly destroying me.

“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” Wild Geese by Mary Oliver is a poem I always return to in the hard times.

***

Two Weeks Ago…

My eyes burn under the fluorescent lights, already red-rimmed from crying.

One moment I’m filling out paperwork, and the next, I’m shivering, naked, sitting on a table.

She taps twice on the door as I pull up the flimsy paper sheet for coverage.

She’s wearing enormous Shamrock earrings.

Is it Saint Patrick’s Day? No idea.

No time for small talk.

She begins her search.

Her fingertips graze over my upper back. She mumbles, “Ah, I see.”

It’s blotted with scars from previous punches.

As she scans my stomach, she decides it’s a great time to half-heartedly ask about my life.

“Actually, I live in Indonesia. I’m just visiting the US for a couple of months.”

She barely reacts.

My lower lip quivers. Tears begin welling up.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Pull yourself together, Sydney.

Far in the distance, I hear a voice. Wait, that’s my own voice.

“To be honest, my boyfriend and I broke up last night. I, I’m super emotional and I, I’ve been crying all day.”

Oh no. I blink once, and the tears break over the dam of my eyelid.

The nurse passes me a tissue, while the doctor offers a stale statement of oh-no-I’m-sorry-to-hear-that.

“Where’s he from?”

Interesting choice of a follow-up question.

I suck in my breath and say, “France.”

She nods as she inspects my scalp, raking through my hair. I feel as ridiculous as a monkey being preened.

She steps back and looks at me. I can barely meet her eyes, I’m so embarrassed.

“I’d like to get a sample of that one.”

She points to a dark mole on my inner thigh.

“The borders are not well-defined, and the color is uneven. And it’s way too dark. Almost black.”

I grunt my consent.

“Teresa, can you get her numbed up?”

The doctor leaves the room. Teresa gets to work, silently.

She’s back.

I look away as she slices off the mole with a razor blade, and pops it in a sample jar.

In some lab somewhere, a stranger will look at a piece of me under a microscope. Later, that stranger will conclude yes, that it is a piece of me quietly destroying me. I wonder if I’m that easy to read.

I’m such a mess and everyone else knows it.

I snap out of it when I realize the doctor’s waiting for my reply.

“Sorry?”

Over her clipboard, the doctor repeats: “So, you’re from France. How long are you around the States?”

I blink.

“I ask, because we’ll have to schedule a follow-up procedure if the results show concern.”

I have no energy to explain that I am not from France, that I am clearly American. And it is my boyfriend who is from France. Ex-boyfriend? It’s complicated, mam. He saw me destroying myself and Doctor, you saw me destroying myself, and Teresa saw me destroying myself and next, a stranger in a crisp white lab coat gets to see I’m destroying myself and I’m slowly, quietly…

“Anyways, you’ll get the results in your Patient Portal and we can go from there.”

She's halfway out the door.

“Thanks for coming in and Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!”

***

The Bill

25-minute dermatology visit: $719.

Lab confirmation that parts of me are indeed revolting: $173.

A system designed to profit from our quiet destruction: working as intended.

***

5 Days Post-Punch Procedure…

When it rains, it pours. And in my case, it tornados—no, literally.

I am in the worst period of destruction of my adult life. Everything is crumbling, and all I can do is lie still and numb as pieces are sliced off with unnerving precision.

My relationship is over. I never thought I’d write those words. Right person, terrible timing.

That night, I stared in the mirror, sobbing, arms wrapped around myself, repeating: "You know. Be brave. You know. Be brave. Come on, you know. You already know. Be brave."

I was in denial for so long while beneath the surface, everything was already coming undone.

Next week, the doctor will remove my stitches to reveal a long scar. A permanent reminder of this time period—when both my flesh and my future required painful intervention.

Hopefully, someday I'll trace that scar from a better place and remember how my body survived this quiet destruction. How I weathered these tornados. And how strong I was, even when falling apart.

***

This is a piece on breaking, becoming, and beginning again. If you’re unraveling right now—me too. What part of you is being remade?