Brace

It feels like I’m wearing that cumbersome brace again—the one from my teenage years. The Milwaukee brace. In my opinion, it’s the worst of the worst when it comes to bracing techniques. The physical scarring is one thing, but the emotional toll it takes on a child? That stays with you. And now, this C collar I’m wearing—it’s coming dangerously close to replicating that same experience.

It’s like there’s a boa constrictor wrapped around my neck. I can’t breathe. My head is locked in place like a plastic mannequin. The room begins to spin—faster and faster—until I have to close my eyes. Inside my mind, there are just circles, colorful swirls, like a dizzying kaleidoscope, edging toward nausea. Please, just get me out of this.

And then, instead of fighting it, I give in. Something too familiar settles into my body. It’s uncomfortable, but I know it well. The muscle memory of that Milwaukee brace rushes back. It consumes me.

Wearing it again—feeling that same restriction—reminds me of just how deeply I loathed it. How powerless I felt. I had no say. I had to wear it. It’s no wonder I reached for anything that could numb those feelings—food, drugs, alcohol—anything to disassociate. I truly believed I was a monster.

But the truth? I was just a scared little girl trying so hard to escape the pain.