Stoic

“Julianna, you’re too stoic.” My pulmonologist softly reprimanded me. It was my second exacerbation of pneumonia within two weeks. My aunt drove me to the hospital as I was too ill to drive. I was in pain. Everything hurt. Every breath in and out of my lungs sent a sharp pain that went all the way up to my neck. I tried to slow my breath down. I had to move intentionally since my whole body felt like I had run an ultramarathon the day prior without any training. I had a fever, wrapped in sweats to help me get warm. When Dr. Fanta came in, he said hi in his usual friendly manner and asked how I was doing. I’m okay, I muttered. That’s when he began to examine the X-rays of my lungs that I had taken minutes prior. He looked concerned and then turned to me, patiently and casually sitting on the exam table, when he said I was too stoic. 

It was the first time someone said this to me, described me in this way. What’s wrong with being stoic? I thought being stoic was a good thing? How did he want me to react? Crying in pain and shouting that I wasn’t feeling well. Did he want me to be angry? Angry at the world for giving me this body that was defective? What use do emotions have in this situation? I was there getting help. What more did he want from me?

Two years later, I found myself in the hospital again. This time with pneumonia and the flu, and also five months pregnant. This was the second time I was hospitalized with pneumonia within three months, and I was further along in my pregnancy this time. All the doctors and nurses were so excited to have a pregnant woman on the floor since they are usually in Obstetrics, never on the med/surg unit. But every day, a labor and delivery nurse would come upstairs to my room to examine the baby to make sure he was okay while I was being treated for my pneumonia. “Wow, you look so much better than I imagined,” the nurse said to me excitedly. I don’t know what she was imagining in her head, but I thought I looked pretty awful on that bed. Dr. Fanta’s stoic comment flashed in my memory. 

My husband sometimes complains that I am too rational. This surprised me, as I feel like I am an emotional person. I am a very empathetic person. I can feel others’ pain. If someone is crying, I will also cry. So, how could I be too rational? 

I guess I never pieced it together that I couldn’t let myself feel what I was feeling when I was growing up. Either because I wasn’t allowed to or I didn’t want to cause more harm. Keeping everything in was much easier. I could make a plan, I could strategize, I could do it on my own. If I showed any weakness, my dad would take advantage of it, use it against me somehow. He was good at that, never letting anything go, and weaponizing it against me when the moment was ripe. If I showed my mom any emotion, it would be too much for her to bear. She was already barely surviving, too weak from my dad’s abuse, using me as her emotional support animal. I was her only trusted person, even if I was just twelve years old. 

So, I experienced things, went into my room, and went off into another world in my head. I would escape. Daydreaming of what life would be like when I went to college. Who I would become and who my friends would be. I lived for the future because the present didn’t allow me to be. It didn’t allow me to breathe. 

The yelling. The putdowns. The expectations. The yacht club. The visit from CPS. The girlfriends. The strip club. The isolation. The abuse. Everything felt so loud and so overwhelming. The only place where I could quiet it down was in my room. Don’t let yourself feel, Julianna, but strategize. I was always analyzing my surroundings. Negotiating with everyone, making moves to maximize what we had. I quickly became the fixer in the family. My older brother and mother both looked up to me as if I were their guide, leading the way.