I asked my tarot deck a specific question this afternoon, and pulled the seven of cups. I’ve been finding so many similarities—or maybe even small truths—in the cards since I’ve been familiarizing myself with them and dabbling in reading. While the seven of cups was right in line with what I was asking, I also realized I just had my seventh laser treatment in the last 19 months, and I’d been thinking about writing out my update here.

I remember my first appointment with Dr. Geronemus—I was five. I remember the hot press of the laser behind my ear, the clunky goggles that took over half my face to protect my eyes. The laser was the size of a ballpoint pen. Apparently, I responded really well to these “test spots,” so much so that when I turned six, I would be able to have my first full treatment. In 1988/1989, laser was too new and possibly too dangerous to apply to anyone younger than six. During one of my last treatments, Dr. Geronemus told me he performs laser treatments on newborns—some of them get treated weekly. I remember long stretches of time between my treatments. I remember soreness, swelling, feeling like half my face wasn’t my own anymore.

I don’t think I remember my first full treatment. But I do remember my most recent. It was last Friday.

I was happy for the sunshine. Before we left, I tucked my tiger’s eye and new optical calcite close to me, hoping for some anxiety relief and an easy trip into the city.

My last appointment didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. The lidocaine wasn’t as effective as it usually is, and I felt the same way about the Xanax I allow myself to take beforehand. I’ve been reading about trauma and triggers, and trying to note what they feel like for me. I was surprised at how painful this one was—so much so that I stopped speaking mid-sentence. I went right back into “turtle mode,” the way I did when I was a scared kid— just keep quiet, stay as still as you can, it’ll be over soon. It’s almost over. Don’t cry. I squeezed a stress ball hard and tried not to think about my mom, who I always looked for first when I woke up from anesthetic. I thought about young kids who got to hold their mothers’ hands instead of stress balls. I tried not to think about my mother’s hands the last time I saw her five years ago. Don’t cry. It’s almost over.

Healing was a little harder last time, and it was compounded by multiple triggers. I’d remember digging my nails into the stress ball, the way I froze, Dr. Geronemus asking, “you okay?” and the way I just said yes, even though I wasn’t. I cried a lot, and it only made my face feel worse. I’m not that surprised that I didn’t want to go for my next treatment. But I did, even though I felt shaky on Friday morning.

There was more traffic than usual, and the GPS took us through Maspeth to the 59th St. Bridge. The scenery was different. I saw a man living in a lean-to on the highway divider, and a mother in cute jeans hustling two kids into a taxi. A Roosevelt Island tram car lifted from the ground and smoothly ascended over us. I realized I’ve never taken that tram in all my years of being a New Yorker.

Despite traffic, street blockages, and someone who clearly did not know how to share the driveway space of the parking garage, I made it up to the office on time. Lisa had started checking me in before I was even at the desk. One of the newer nurses, Kara, ((or at least one who’d never helped me before)) took me into an exam room to take progress photos. She commented on how well my PWS on my chest is breaking up, and also, how it’s almost gone on my right side. The lidocaine was cold, like it always is. Plastic wrap was applied to keep it from getting everywhere. And then, I went into the “private” waiting room, where three other patients sat with the same cream on various sections of their faces. A lady with two-toned Chanel flats had it over her entire face. I wondered what she was having treated. A little girl had three scars on her face smeared with it. She didn’t look scared. But I’m sure I didn’t, either.

I’ve been struggling with my mood over the last five weeks, like I wrote about. There have been times when it’s been bad enough that I’ve leaned on half a Xanax to keep me from spiraling, which I don’t normally do. Thinking about this, plus, the fact that it didn’t seem to help as much last time, I took two full pills instead of one and a half. About halfway through my numbing time, I felt the second pill kick in. “It won’t be as bad this time,” I thought. I think it’s funny how I need pharmaceuticals sometimes to help me remember simple truths—some of those things that I just know, but I don’t believe.

Kara came back to get me and removed the lidocaine. To my relief, I touched my top lip and could hardly feel it. I was already feeling better. Dr. Geronemus came in and placed the eye shield, which is always one of the worst parts. I feel like I hardly noticed this time. As he started rolling the Miria over my cheek, I asked how patients are liking the Avava-developed laser so far. “They’re loving the results,” he explained. “The study is almost done!”

“Will I be able to see it?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It’ll be published.” In my partially-altered state, I wondered if I could tell people I’ve had both my words and my face professionally published at this point. “What’s going on in Jackie world these days?”

I started babbling about how dating is garbage, which always makes him giggle. “They all lie,” I said. “Literally all of them.” I explained what seemed like endless lies that I’ve been told over the last few months. One was married. One was sleeping with someone else. I watched one walk backward on a promise. And of course, there was the one that straight-up ran away, like a scared little girl. I’d seen more bravery in actual little girls dealing with actually traumatic things.

As I felt the sting of the Vbeam, Dr. Geronemus explained that he had a 50-year-old friend who’d lost his wife to a drunk driver, who had also been explaining that the women he dated had a tendency to lie. You’d think these things would end at some point. It made me sad to think of pain expounded by the universe and by so many unhealed people. I winced as the Vbeam snapped against my ears—it was so loud close up. There was also the smell—what I guess I can only describe as burning flesh. But by the time he gets to my ears, it means I’m almost finished. I loosened the grip on the tiger’s eye I’d moved to my palm, happy to know it wouldn’t squish under nervous hands.

Dr. Geronemus came back a few minutes later to cauterize a bleb that’s been bothering me on my eyelid. A third type of pain, but even faster than the other two. I’m still amazed at how quickly I’m in and out of treatment. They sent me on my way with two ice packs, and we picked up the car after being parked for two hours. Evidently, the Xanax came for me on the ride home, when I fell asleep mid-song listening to The Black Parade ((my requested ride-home album)). Apparently, I’d woken up briefly to sing a line or two from “This Is How I Disappear” before instantly falling back asleep. I woke up in my driveway, nearly stumbled up the stairs, and fell into bed, where I slept more than four hours.

When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t even had a treatment. Zero pain. No swelling. My face didn’t even feel strange. At one point, I scratched a spot on my lip and wondered why it hurt like that before realizing it was because it was laser bruised. Today, I am three days out, but it feels like almost a week post-treatment. There’s some soreness on my chest ((keeping me from wearing my newly moon-charged carnelian)) and my ears, as always, as well as one spot under my eye. But I was able to sleep on my left side on Saturday night, which is usually something that takes a couple of days. There’s almost no scabbing at all, other than the cauterized bleb.

I can absolutely understand why Dr. Geronemus’s other patients are pleased with the Miria. While I’m still “rocking my dots,” like the PWS community likes to say ((they’re the bruised dark spots from the actual laser penetration and destruction)), the Miria doesn’t leave any of these behind—only some small black specks, like grains of black pepper. I haven’t needed to take the Prednisone they send me home with, since there’s been no swelling at all around my eye. The Miria-treated spots are almost painless, but I do notice increased itching. I’m at the point now where my face feels a little scaly to me, and I’ve woken up scratching around my nose, which I’m careful not to do while I’m awake. After I take a shower and before I go to bed, I wash really carefully with mild soap and I’ve been applying First Aid Beauty moisturizer, which is basically gold in cream form—it has been helping more than Aquaphor usually does. During the application is the only time where I really notice soreness and sensitivity.

I am really excited for my dots to heal. I was looking at one earlier and noticing just how much larger the actual beam is now, as compared to the pen-sized one of my childhood. It’s no wonder there’s no need for general anesthetic or a full hospital-performed surgery on children anymore. The treatment itself is minutes. There’s been so much clearing—I wonder how much of it will even be noticeable on my right side after this fully heals. And of course, that makes me even more excited to see how much breaking up and lightening I will have on the left after six weeks.

Relief.

It was all I kept thinking about this past weekend, when I let myself hang out on the couch, order food, and nap to help the healing process. I used every tool in my small arsenal to try to keep the anxiety at bay last week. Considering the state of affairs in my head lately, it could have easily gotten out of control. I was so worried about discomfort and triggers. I have been so sad about so many things. It’s no wonder I basically collapsed in the car, once everything was over.

In my head, I can remember my purple-black skin, so swollen I could feel it, the surface hot to the touch. “It won’t always be like this,” I tell her now. “It won’t always be endless hours of terror you keep inside, and then, weeks of pain afterward. It won’t always be this hard.” I’m not sure if she believes me, but she knows she has bravery on her side—bravery that some adults clearly wouldn’t be able to muster.

I try to go back to that when I’m shown lies, disrespect, and dismissiveness. In the grand scheme of things, where does fallout from unhealed adults land when you’re burning self-consciousness from your skin? What’s an afternoon of spiraling thoughts when you’ve done scarier things alone? What do you learn when you realize just how meaningless some words are when they come from someone who will literally never know what you do or who you’ve had to be?

Eighteen treatments down, and only forward to go.