Normal is a relative term.

Two weeks ago, I underwent surgery to remove a diabetic abscess from one of my toes. I blogged about it … because, of course I did.

A big toe named Elise Stefanik

I spent the past two weeks healing. And last Friday, the podiatrist felt that my progress had improved to the point where he took the stitches out of what was once a full big toe. I still have to keep the appendage bandaged for a time just to make sure all the healing completes its course.

I mean … it was a relief to go back to normal shoes after two weeks of using an orthopedic boot and a walking cane. It was great to feel like I’ve returned to normal.

But let’s be true. Normal is a relative term. You feel as “normal” as you can.

It’s like three years ago, when I broke my right ankle and needed a rod and screws installed in my leg. Today, it’s nothing more than something I tell the TSA before I go through their x-ray machines, but it took a long time for me to personally feel “normal” over it.

And for me, trying to convince myself I’m “normal” goes a long way back. Way back.

It goes back to when I was eight years old, and I rode on the handlebars of a friend’s bike – he suddenly stopped, and I fell off, landed on the pavement, and scraped the shit out of my left knee. Blood and skin and dirt all through it. There’s a scar there now. Sometimes I notice it, sometimes I don’t. But for a while, it was an emotional trigger. Even today, it’s hard for me to wear shorts outside – I’d prefer to wear jeans or sweats instead.

It goes back to when I was nine years old, and my stepfather – in a major rage one night – came into my bedroom and yanked me out of the top bunk of my bunkbed. In my fall, I tried to brace myself by sticking out my hand to hit the floor first – only to crack my elbow in the process. Cast. Sling. And eventually the discovery that, for the rest of my days, I wouldn’t be able to touch my left shoulder with my left hand. I can touch my right shoulder with my right hand, but my left hand stops an inch away from touching my shoulder. I just tried it again as I wrote today’s blog post. No touch.

It goes back to the ninth grade bullies in South Colonie, one of whom beat me up so badly that I had blood gushing out of my temple. The scar is still there, I know it is. Even though my hair is thinning out, I refuse to take that big step and shave it all off for a complete bald look. I just know that scar is there and I know people will point to it and ask me about it. And I won’t truly know how to explain it without bringing up the trauma and pain.

It’s not just physical actions taken against me. There are still emotional traumas that I battle every day. Some are tiny, some more pronounced. I know there’s therapists and medicines out there that could theoretically help me get past these emotional triggers – but I need to deal with those emotions myself. I need to bring that healing to me in every way, shape or form possible. But I have to pull these together in my own unique way.

It’s why I hold onto my skills as tightly as possible. Every photo I take in the North Country is like an analgesic to the migraines of emotional torture. Every successful experimental film shot has to counterbalance the hurt from the bullies and from the griefers and from the evils.

And every broken bone needs a counterbalance. Something to say, “You’re not broken, Chuck. You’ve broken through.” And if I can do all that in my life … if I can get to the last day and not feel like my entire existence on this planet has been a waste of oxygen and spermatozoa … then maybe, just maybe, I’ve won.

I guess this blog post is the equivalent of a post-surgical emotional outcry.

I know I’ll make it through.

It’s just that sometimes … I need to convince myself that it’s actually possible.