… and I’m guilty as charged.
I’ve never been a hardware store kind of girl. I think the hardware section at Target is just dandy. It’s got everything I personally might use. There are days, when in the interest of togetherness, I will venture into Home Depot with The Man (who is a hardware store kind of guy.) When we do wander in there I require a specific and time limited mission. The same applies to shoe departments and The Man… I must have a specific time limited mission for him to go with me. In my opinion this is fair. He agrees.
So you can imagine how happy I am to be sporting new hardware (1 plate, 6 screws, and 2 pins to be exact) inside my right ankle. How I got injured isn’t very exciting. I wasn’t intoxicated, I wasn’t having sex with Christian Grey, I wasn’t saving the life of a small child or animal, I wasn’t in a vehicle, there were no weapons. Garden variety. Missed the bottom two steps on the staircase I’ve been traversing for 14 years in my home.
But, I’m not writing to tell you that story. I’m writing to lie to you for a while. I don’t think I can take one more day of this much less 5 more weeks in a non-weight bearing cast. I’m losing my mind because I’m so helpless and dependent. I won’t be driving for 10 more weeks (best case.) I’m depressed, bitchy, whiney, and miserable.
I don’t give a flying f*** what lessons I’m learning or why I “needed” this fall. I can’t see the big picture. It doesn’t matter that the cast is purple, what matters is I’m getting weaker by the day. Oh yes, I have state of the art devices to help me lug my lame right leg around, but I’m not a damn bit grateful for them. I shouldn’t have to be lugging my leg anywhere. It was designed for me to walk on!
Did I need to slow down? Okay. Yes I did. But if one more person tells me God or the Universe had a plan I might take up kick boxing. with the cast. in their face. And all the compliments about how well I am doing, how tough I am, how strong I am, what a f***ing good patient I am don’t help one damn bit. Blown off totally by me. I don’t care if I’m the best damn patient Dr. Hot Stuff has ever had.
I’m lame. totally. lame in both senses of the word. And all those other world issues like famine and people who have been in bomb blasts, and stepped on landmines only to lose limbs… I can barely think it – much less write it out loud, but I’m going to. I have to. I don’t care about them right now. I’m up to eyeballs in self-pity and self-blame.
I figure I was knocked down by my own karma train coming to get me. Surely the bad stuff I’ve done, the messes I’ve gotten myself into, the advice (even my own) that I’ve ignored are the cause of this mishap. Hell I wasn’t on the floor for even 60 seconds (did I mention I dislocated “the” ankle too – it’s not mine – it’s “the” ankle now) when I knew it was my fault. I’d been careless with myself. Every bad thing I’ve done, every time I hurt a person I loved… well it was judgement day. All those things flashed before my eyes and I was felt I was deemed faulty by powers greater than myself.
I can barely stomach accepting love right now. I don’t feel worthy of it for so many damn reasons. But the self-pity is the most of it. If I let someone love me it might dilute my inner misery. I wouldn’t want that would I? I wouldn’t want to let someone in. I wouldn’t want to text back the dear friend who has tried to come visit me since the 14th of August. I’m erratic in responding to most of my messages because MY SHIT IS WORSE THAN YOURS RIGHT NOW!!!![Silence] [Pause] [Please keep reading...]
I told you at the onset of this rant I was going to lie to you. The lie isn’t that I think these things. I do. The lies are what the voices in my head are saying. That wicked heartless, guilty self-pitying person is not ALL of me. It’s only a tiny bit of me. That critical and messy voice inside my head just won’t shut up. I’m driving my own self crazy listening to that shit.
Please tell me you understand. Please tell me you’ve been there too. I don’t mean I need to hear that you had a dislocated and broken ankle. I mean please tell me you’ve had thoughts that were so ugly you didn’t dare voice them out loud. But even if you do tell me that we are more alike than different, I’m the one who is going to have to give myself a break (hmmmm interesting choice of words.) And really I don’t need you to tell me about your bad thoughts. The question was rhetorical, because I know most of you can and do relate. We’re really not that much different. It’s just that we have different stories.
I don’t think that stuff every minute of every day. I don’t even think it most of the time now, but when I do think it, I find it overwhelming and it takes time for me to recover. In those moments I believe all that crap and I deem myself guilty.
I’m weary of guilt. If guilt was a useful companion on this journey I’d pack it a sandwich and let it use my second knee scooter. But it won’t help anything. It won’t change my situation or the situation of those who have suffered far worse blows to their physical body than me. It won’t give one limb back to one wounded veteran or villager. And it won’t bring me the gratitude I need right now.
I’m not guilty as charged. I’m guilty of being human. I’m guilty of being susceptible to the laws of gravity and motion. I’m guilty of being breakable.
I don’t like it one bit.
But and this is a BIG BUT…
I’m repairable – not reprehensible.
That’s all for now. I’m tired. In order to go on with the work of repairing the damage done and learning from all of this, I need sleep and that’s the truth.
p.s. this also means I’m going to be banned from flip-flops again and that really does piss me off. Why oh why do I have to be addicted to pretty flip-flops?Share My Beautiful Mess: