I was trying to think of why I haven’t written, and I have all kinds of reasons. I can drive now. I can train more. I am back to commuting some days to DC and Virginia for work. And because I have been watching a show.
Now most people need to stop watching TV, whereas if you know me well, you are excited and proud of me for sitting down long enough to stare at one thing without much distraction. I’ve often said that I have TV’s for guests, not for me. I’ve been known to watch a movie here or there, and now that Mike is here, we partake together, but in general I have no interest in the bullshit that scrolls across the screen, nor the incredible influx of food commercials that make it obvious that no wonder America is obese.
Watching this show has been an escape for me. I didn’t consider that I’d handle my broken leg rather seamlessly, take in stride the inability to do my normal life but that after I was released from leg jail that I’d become somewhat unglued and hyper-focused on things other than myself. AKA, the people closest to me.
I feel like I’m missing a layer of skin. I feel like I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut. I feel like I am riding a roller coaster at work, experiencing sensations of jealousy, resentment, disappointment and pity. I feel like I am bored. I feel like I have too much going on, while simultaneously nothing at all. I feel like I don’t feel like doing anything, while also compelled to do something. I feel unsexy and also accepting. I feel stable and also insane. I feel funny and also seriously terrified.
Yes, you can experience juxtaposed emotions at exactly the same time, for extended periods of time. Breaking my leg was no joke, but I have been taught to armor myself against hardship and to boot up and show up when most don’t want to. I have been instilled with such a solid foundation of discipline and routine and self-care, that it kicks into overdrive when things are hard. I knew to expect feeling bad when I couldn’t control what was happening to me, and I should know to expect the reverse when things start to get better.
The disease hates when things get better. For context, I refer to the disease as the voice in my head that speaks to me in my own voice that wants me dead. We all have this voice. The trailing whisper that says, “you’re not good enough.” The often-chatty voice that says, “you won’t ever get it.” The voice that robs me of every celebration I’ve ever had if I don’t catch it in time. The voice that cradles my misery and encourages me to bathe in it when it comes. The voice that pushes people away that I really need to hold me close. The voice that compels me to treat myself in a way that places me in a position to get hurt – every time.
For two weeks now, I have been allowed to drive. To most, I appear completely normal because I am no longer wearing only a left shoe. To most, it may seem that I am free and clear and can pursue fitness in the ways that make me feel best. To most, I should be grateful and serene and so freaking overjoyed that I can start to move forward, that the idea of being a rabid squirrel right now sounds ridiculous.
But I am. And I have to be honest about it. It has never served me to try and be somewhere that I’m not. As grateful as I am to be moving forward, I am also in a new place. I had become accustomed to not being able to drive, not being able to walk on my own, not being able to start training my foot and leg and ankle to run again, let alone run. I had become accustomed to talking about my break and surgery and getting attention from everyone I saw. I had become accustomed to staying present while planning ahead, carefully.
And now that normal has changed again. Now I can drive, and don’t need people to get me groceries. Now I can use my drive time to call people back and get some alone time. Now I can work on my legs for real, but to tell you that process is slow is an understatement. I haven’t used my foot in 3 months. The boot did a damn good job of reducing stress, so those first few days of no boot were pretty intense. Then to move into lifting my body off of the ground with my right foot – I’ve never experienced that level of physical weakness in my life. It’s like my foot couldn’t even budge. It was surreal. Humbling. A little scary.
What a metaphor for all that is life: the body tells the story of what our emotions beg us to do. Our body takes the hit so that we can have some experience to push toward our vulnerability, showing us that if we can get through that, we can get through this. The first run I did was for 1 minute at a time, literally. I was so overjoyed to be running, while simultaneously hyper-aware of my weak foot and fear. I was focused on my cadence and arm swing and breathing and heart rate, while also the sensation of newness and starting over. The next day was painful. The plate hurt – everything around it was tugging and yanking and I was afraid I’d overdone it. I have a brilliant PT in my life that is guiding me, so I defer to him for everything and sure enough with a day of rest, I felt great. And we ran again, and it was better. One more day and some more PT, and we ran again. Now for 2 minutes at a time. Even better still.
And this is how it goes. We back off, we relax a little and take it easy, and it gets better. It releases for us. When we push and force and resist, it doesn’t. I have committed to staying completely honest throughout this process, despite the incredible urge not to be. I don’t want to admit to swelling or pain or discomfort when all I want is to be able to run on the trail again. I don’t want to admit to a temporary weakness for fear I’m not doing something right.
And that is me emotionally right now. I do not want to be honest. I do not want to admit that I feel exposed. I do not want to admit that I feel uncertain, scared, timid, raw. I do not want to admit that living with someone, even someone I love, is hard. I do not want to admit that in a few short months, I will be 35 and still unmarried and without a family yet started. I am scared. I do not want to admit that I still think awful fucking thoughts about my body some days. I do not want to admit that I still get obsessed with things I cannot control, or people. I do not want to admit that sometimes I say things in my head that if said out loud, would leave me alone forever. I do not want to admit that sometimes it feels like I’m going backwards, never forwards.
But I also know that feelings aren’t facts. I also know that thinking won’t get me to feeling better but acting will. So, I do admit. I do stay honest. I do face adversity. I do share that I’m in this place and I do my best to leverage pause when it counts most, sometimes falling short and recognizing that my humanness is real. I do ask people to come closer and I do work really hard to stay open and keep my head up and stay here.
Because in spite of the neurosis and the tendency to magnify the things that I don’t like, my life is the best that it’s ever been. My body is handling this recovery like a boss. My heart is full and in love and I am trusting that this relationship of mine is going to work out for both of us. I have an incredible, satisfying career that has given me more than I anticipated already, with a lot more to come. I am the closest to my parents’ than I’ve ever been, and of service to people every day.
I am living my best life, because I keep moving my feet despite the desire to sometimes camp out in bed in the middle of the day and hide with the TV on.
Thank God it’s downstairs and I know enough to turn it off on time, but for real. This shit is real. I’m glad I’m never alone in any of it.