Last Wednesday, I was on my way to work.  I was in traffic, of course.  Near the intersection of Highway 17 and San Tomas Expressway, I stopped behind one of those all white utility vans favored by contractors everywhere.  I could see a pile of paint cans through the back window.

What caught my attention was the bumper of this van.  I thought to myself, “how on earth did this thing get that banged up and still survive?”  I was so impressed that I grabbed my phone and took a picture of it while we were still stopped.

In years past, I owned a Nissan Altima that I bought just after moving back to California.  On the third week of ownership, I parked at a movie theater in Cupertino and came back to find a big dent in the right corner of the bumper.  I was furious, but there was nothing I could do.

I had every intention of pulling the dent out, but days turned into weeks and then into months.  Years passed and the dent stayed in my bumper.  Eventually, I reasoned it made it easier to find in a parking lot. Finally, I decided that the dent was actually a reflection of myself:  damaged, but good to go.

For almost all of my adult life that is how I’ve seen myself.  For a number of years, I spoke with a trusted advisor who gently prodded me to “pull out the dent”.  When the “dent” becomes part of your identity, however, this is easier said than done.

In recent times, the battlefield phrase “walking wounded” has taken on new meaning, extending to describe the emotionally scarred, going through life crippled by psychological injuries, unable to fully heal.  Like me, many of these have chosen to hold on to their injuries as a kind of identity.  I lost my father at the end of 2015, and have since witnessed my mother progress through many stages of grief; she is more resilient than me, and is now living an active, positive life.  I’m not sure I’ve even dealt with my grief yet.

Does pulling out the dent mean forgetting the accident?  If you don’t want to forget, if you’re even afraid to forget, can you ever be normal again?  Is there a way to remember, but to simultaneously let go?

I am haunted by these questions.  Today, however, I can say that they no longer control me.  Like that famous phrase, befuddled in origin (and in reverse), I grew healthier again all at once, and then very slowly.   More than a decade since the damage was done, I realize that the damage wasn’t done when I took the dent.  My entire life is about the damage, and also about its inverse.

I am not here only for myself.

Clarissa, from The Hours:  

“That is what we do. That is what people do. They stay alive for each other.”