Wednesday, March 7, 2012


I got hurt.

It was a rock-climbing incident with a fast-paced, reach-jump-catch-hang-&-relocate-body into position, rest, climb action.

Also known as a dyno, the maneuver shredded more than six muscles in my right shoulder.  The orthopedic surgeons told me not to climb for at least two years. 

The news broke my stride.  Why bother working out if I can't use my body? 

I got so hurt it made me sick.
But not from that nasty catch alone.

I got sick from a secret.
By keeping my private hell a secret, I slowly triggered chemicals in my body to react at a toxic rate.

I got so sick I lost my job.
They were kind about it. My position was reduced, but I think if my body worked right...
People don't ask about blood-shot eyes, dizziness, and shaking.
People assume and people talk, but they don't ask.

The first time I got sent home from work I was already divorced.  At the time, I had no idea what was happening to me, only that I needed to keep it secret so assumptions wouldn't be carried over to my ex-husband and my freedom to parent wouldn't be further taken from me.

I'm not sure which hurt happened to set the other off, or if they are even related.  Maybe it was the excessive amount of ibuprofen I took for my shoulder, maybe it was genetic.  In the end, I suffer from endocrine system dysfunction, kidney disease, hypo-thyroid syndrome, stage two spinal deterioration, fibromyalgia, exhaustion, and more; they all add up to incapacitation, and that's without staring face-front at the foundation of anxiety built from years of a sexually and emotionally abusive marriage that ended when he threw my two kids and me toward the bath-tub in a rage; it doesn't include the ever-present fear of not knowing what to expect.  It doesn't hold the threats of being locked away for a lie, the possible truth that he really would take the kids to South America and never return, it doesn't include the struggle and daily effort it takes to keep everyone "safe" in body and mind.

I don't overcome fear on a daily basis, I can't.  I get tired of fighting for my health, knowing I was a strong, beautiful, active mother who gave exploration, bravery, athleticism, and the world to my two kids... I dislike this woman who doesn't feel well enough to go outside to play catch with my son; it's a terrible place, being stuck in this secret of physical pain so that I get my share of custody without question...  I'm still alive!  I'm not repulsive.  I'm TRYING to come to terms with it... I just, I just miss my health.

And I want to be seen the way I know myself to be, before the stupid body decided to turn 84 instead of 34. Sometimes I have confidence.  It lasts shortly into the morning; a syncompated pattern of caffiene --> confidence --> getting to the job I have until June but need to keep to myself the sadness of leaving--> anxiety --> responsibilities --> exhaustion.  And I'm spent.  Emotionally and all at once, my bones feel more like a brittle over-growth of osteo-hormones than a systemic puzzle meant to keep my body in order.  The pain of walking.

The pain of moving forward.

I maintain the visage of wholeness, but I don't always feel that way because I have to face and feel the inside.   And looking in, I'm still perplexed at how I survive the day.  But I do.  I survive the day.

No comments:

Post a Comment