Monday, 10 June 2013

On The Mend

A few years ago I broke my ankle.

I mean I badly broke it. I really went all out.

I had surgery and everything.

And it made even the simplest task a massive humongous pain in the arse.

Making tea, showering, doing the washing, dressing. Everything seemed impossible.

One day, only a few days after my surgery, my doped up brain decided I wanted Jaffa Cakes. The store was a mere 5 minute walk from my house. So I dragged myself from bed, shuffled down the stairs on my arse and 30 minutes later, I was at the store.

Sweaty, pissed off, in a lot of pain and not really hungry for Jaffa Cakes anymore.

I hadn’t yet learnt the trick of bringing an over the shoulder bag with me when I was on crutches to act as another set of hands, so I hobbled about the store trying to balance a basket filled with iced tea and cake for about 20 minutes.

After another 30 minute “walk” home and dragging myself up the stairs, I just collapsed on my bed and cried for a very long time.

That’s an attractive image isn’t it? A stoned, sweaty lesbian with a cast on her leg who hasn’t been able to wash properly for a week crying and stuffing her face with cake.

God I’m sexy.

Moving on….

I really clearly remember at that point feeling like things would never improve. It seemed like there would never be a point where I would be able to walk or run or even easily nip to the shop again. I knew my leg would heal. But it seemed like such an abstract and far off possibility that my brain just wasn’t having any of it.

It felt like I was totally stuck and that this was how it would be forever.

And I think that’s the point I’m at now, too. I know my heart will heal. I know I will move on. But the prospect of meeting someone new and not grieving over R seems so far off, sometimes it feels like it will never happen.

Right now I’m in that same position I was before. I’ve slogged back from the store and I’m curled up on my bed moping over my leg and nursing my feelings with jelly cake. When my leg broke, my friends rallied round me. B1 made my dinner, which I then promptly threw back up because of the drugs I was on. B2 came and did my washing for me, badly, but the thought’s what counts. And R was there, as ever, with endless cups of tea, comfort and millions of documentaries for us to watch.

And my friends are here now. Letting me crash on their floors, couches and beds. Plying me with wine and gin. Patiently listening to me moan and confiscating my phone when needs be.

I don’t remember at what point things started to look up when I was still in my leg cast. There was no “eureka” moment. Things just gradually started to suck less and I was able to do more on my own.

I guess it’ll be the same now.

Things will hurt less and less, until one day I notice they don’t really hurt at all.


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