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Sunday, September 18, 2016

Slow

I recently decided that I was going to start running again.  There's this 5K I have done for the past three years now and last year I walked it because my sister fucked her knee up and someone has to keep her in check.  I wasn't going to do it again this year, then at the last minute decided I was because I really like to test my meds at least quarterly.  So I started running, got the old runner's high again, and remembered why I used to like it to begin with.

Then I pulled a groin muscle.

It wasn't bad at first.  I was all "oh, I'll rest it for a day or two."

Day or two turned into a month.  Wasn't bad at first turned into holy hell my leg is on fire and it hurts and I'm dying.  This then turned into people I work with freaking out thinking I had a blood clot (I didn't, but glad someone is going to care for my physical health because I sure suck at it sometimes).  I got doctor's involved, then physical therapy.  And had a breakthrough.

Or so I thought.

The PT stretched my leg out some and used ultrasound therapy.  For the first time in two weeks, I could walk without looking like some kind of zombie dragging my leg behind me.  It was great.

Until it wasn't.

That weekend, I woke up on Saturday and could not put any weight on the leg.  At all.  I caved and started to use crutches.  Went back to physical therapy for the second session.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  The tone of voice used here indicated to me that this woman wanted to add some F-bombs in there but she was being all professional and shit so she did not.

I'll spare you the details, but basically I managed to twist my pelvis and hips into positions that they are not meant to be twisted, which then was pinching nerves.  I went to the chiropractor in desperation for the first time in my life.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  Again, pretty sure the tone was F-bombs.  Maybe if there was an F-bomb font (like we need a sarcasm font) I wouldn't need to actually say fuck as much as I do...

He told me that I chose the biggest joint of the spinal cord to get out of place.  Of course I did.  It is very fitting for my life that I would do this.  He popped that sucker back into position, while cracking dad jokes continually which was actually rather amusing, and then told me to go home and lie down for the rest of the day.

My tone was F-bombs.  "Uh, I'm going to work."  He shook his head at me and told me to slow down.  "You have to let yourself heal.  Who knows how long your pelvis was that way."

I, of course, went to work.  And then the next day drove to college to see Elizabeth for family weekend after going grocery shopping and running the little girls to dance and gymnastics.  We walked all around campus, taking stairs at times, even.  I brought the crutches as the damn thing kept slipping in and out.

Let myself heal?  When?  While Charles is still off work because of his arm, his idea of a clean house is way more relaxed than mine is.  I have not been up the stairs to kiss the little girls good night in almost a month, which kills me.  My garden desperately needs my attention.  I have not gone for a run, which was a great source of stress relief, since this has happened. Rolling over in bed at times can hurt, yet the idea of having to sit and relax is almost enough to send me into a panic attack.  What am I running from?

Perhaps it is my own thoughts that I am running away from.  My head can be a pretty messed up place sometimes.  Perhaps it is from judgment from others, because God knows as a woman who works and has children I will forever be judged as inadequate at both.  Perhaps it is the anxiety, that while controlled for the most part is always there, lurking, telling me that I am in grave danger somehow; that my loved ones are too.

Having to slow down has made me realize how hard and fast I go sometimes.  Hell, for the last two years I have been working 7 days/week, most weeks.  I have been figuratively limping along for a while now...Is it no wonder my body decided to give out when I pushed it running and started literally limping?  Maybe it was my subconscious's way of getting my attention, and when that did not work it had to up the ante and get my pelvis, hip, and back involved in the game so I would finally slow down some. Some.  Not as much as I probably should.  I still have tendencies toward oppositional behaviors because I am an asshole like that and don't like to be told I can't do something.  Because you know, the rules for caring for sports injuries somehow don't apply to me.

Guess "slow" can also be applied to me as a learner of life lessons, as well.


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