Hiding in the Boot

The boot was my shield.  It gave me justification for how I was often feeling.  It gave me something to point to in order to explain my body not looking the way that I want it to.  It gave me a boost with my results at work.  It yielded a lot of attention, because breaking your leg and wearing a boot will do that.

It also helped me hide.

Knowing that I wasn’t going to walk or run again anytime soon gave me a sense of neutrality.  Not every day was easy or even joyful, but overall I was not in a rush or worried about anything physical because I knew it wasn’t going to change any time soon.  Some days it was ok knowing that I couldn’t express myself physically and it helped me just sit there, because I knew I had to.  Other days it felt punishing and unfair.

But now that the boot is off?  I have nothing to hide behind.  I haven’t so much lost perspective that I am still healing but have the expectation that I should progress linearly forward despite the sensations in my foot and ankle that I cannot.  I have very real moments of lost perspective when I see a body in the mirror that I wish looked differently, instead of gratitude that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, right sizing the temporary state of any of our bodies and how they look to the world.  Instead my disease yells at me, instead of consoling me that I didn’t do anything wrong. 

I feel so exposed.  Like a raw nerve.  I have never been in this place before.  I have never been so vulnerable physically, while simultaneously taking great care of myself.  I’ve been sidelined before – major concussions, partially torn shoulders, wrists and hips, stress reactions in my femur – but I wasn’t taking care of myself during those times.  I wasn’t aligned spiritually.  I wasn’t thinking of myself first, with my long-term health and wellness in mind.  I wasn’t thinking of myself kindly.  I wasn’t kind.  I couldn’t be because I didn’t know how to be.  And I didn’t have people around me that I would allow to support me and guide me or who I could be honest with – willingly.

That is the hardest part – staying honest through this process, for better or worse.  Honesty isn’t typically a problem for me, but I’m talking about the heart and mind connected kind of honesty that when you wake up you know you’re not OK, and you have to acknowledge that instead of bulldoze your way into normalcy and avoid it.  I definitely know how to do that, and it’s time that I stop.

And because it is time to stop, I am getting my share of opportunities to practice.  Lip service won’t cut it anymore – I have to show up and act differently.

And it’s hard.

It’s hard because I know it is not somebody else’s job to make me feel good enough in my body, but damnit if I don’t want it to be somebody else’s fucking job.  Anybody’s.  My mother’s, Mike’s, coworkers, friends – anybody but mine. 

I have temporarily lost some perspective, but I have gained a greater picture.  I realize we all, myself included, judge people and things and situations by snapshots.  We lack the total story.   We lack all of the information.  We see someone driving a nice car and we assume they have their shit together. We see someone with wild children in the grocery store and assume they lack parenting skills.  We see someone heavy and assume they have no discipline or regard for their health.

We have no idea where they’ve been, where they’re going, or what they’ve already endured.  Just like I know people see me wearing two shoes and walking around and would never venture to guess what’s happened to my leg.  Just like people see me as a normal size and they’d never venture to guess the hell my mind has put me through to stay there or how hard I have to work to not change that.

And just like with any blog, I write for me and my soul and my faith.  I write to learn and to untangle and to shed light.  And maybe along the way, I can quicken the process for your unveiling and shed a little light on the connections we do have, instead of the connections we don’t.

See you soon.