I was going to try and write a nice, flippant, post today. I'd have to bullshit all of you if I did, so I thought better of it. If I'd written it, you'd know I was faking the cheery attitude. I'm nothing, if not transparent. In fact, I think I'm one of the most transparent people on earth. I'm not good at hiding anything from anyone.
Last time I checked, I had a bunch of new subscribers. If they haven't all bailed on me in the last few days, I know they're patiently waiting. They are saying to themselves, "Hey, I thought this chick was supposed to be interesting and funny. I thought she was going to make fun of all the freaky rich people she lives near. She's nothing but boring!"
So instead, I'm going to be honest with all of you today. I hope you'll appreciate the honesty enough to hang in there with me for a few days until I get back in a groove. I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I seem to have made some progress with my accident recovery. The Torturer tells me I've reached some new blah, blah, blah level. The bad news is that for about a week he has been giving me new things to do at PT and I'm in so much frickin' pain I can hardly think straight.
It isn't very conducive to writing. The pain has temporarily killed my sense of humor.
Briefcase is gone on an extended trip. I've been trying to fill the role of mom and dad and every other imaginable role that has been needed around here. I enjoyed the solitude over the weekend. I really did. I thought I'd get a lot of writing done. There's just one problem. I'm wincing every time I move. Or think. Or type. My pain level is through the roof.
I get frustrated whenever I need to resort to pain meds because I see it as a giant step backwards. I beat myself up for being weak and not being able to endure the pain without them. I walk around cranky all day and don't take them so that I am able to drive and function. Then I cave in and take them once I'm home for the evening. When I go weeks without them I convince myself I'll never need them again. Then The Torturer changes my routine and I feel like a failure when I do need them again after all.
I've been beating myself up a lot this last week. Yesterday The Torturer told me I must raise my arm 90 degrees. (That means raising it up until it reaches straight out in front of me at shoulder height.) He hooked me up to the dreaded taser gun and tried shocking my muscles into working. I grimaced and winced and, with immense effort, eventually got my arm to lift 70 degrees.
Seventy measly degrees out of one hundred and eighty.
The pain made it not even worth it. I mean, really, who the hell wants to be able to use their arm?
I'm so over it. Arms are overrated.
Seventy degrees is nothing. Nothing. My sense of failure multiplied. Over two years in physical therapy, five surgeries, and I'm a failure. A failure and in a lot of pain, what's the point? And, not for the first time, I felt my spirit just giving up. "I just can't do this anymore," began as a whisper and developed into a chant in my head. Discouragement is too mild of a word to describe what I've been feeling.
"I can't do this," I said out loud yesterday.
"I don't ever want to hear you say that word again," snapped The Torturer.
Can't! Can't! Can't!!
(Why in the world does he think I need to be treated like a 3 year old?)
The Torturer and I went off to a private room for all the one-on-one shit he does to me. I am normally chatty and bubbly, but I couldn't even talk. I knew if I tried to express what I was feeling I'd start crying. The man's seen enough of my tears. I think seeing me quiet was more disconcerting to him than tears would have been.
He tried to talk me out of my funk. He repeated again how happy I should be that he's giving me new things to try. How this is a big step forward. How, of course, there will be a lot of pain every time I start in with new things. I lay there on the table, eyes closed, letting him move my arm and pretending to listen. Really, I was concentrating on holding back the tears. He talked, and all I really heard was blah, blah, blah.
Then suddenly he scolded me, "Snap out of it!" he said sternly.
Startled, I looked at him.
"You should be happy," he admonished me. "This is a good sign."
I rubbed my eyes, trying to quell the threatening tears.
"What will happen if I quit right now and never come back? Will it improve on it's own?" I inquired.
He looked stunned. Stunned and angry.
"What do you think will happen?" he rebuked me.
I didn't answer. I really don't know what would happen. I guess my arm would just stay the way it is. Would I regress? I don't know. Would my arm shrivel up like a raisin?
I left a short while later.
"I'll see you Wednesday?" he asked.
I could see him studying me, appraising. He was deliberating how to deal with me this time. I suppose I'm a bit of a challenge. Maybe.
I nodded, but of course I was contemplating canceling all my appointments. I think maybe he knew that since … ahem, I've done it before.
To be honest, I'm still considering it. I'm so frustrated. I'm so discouraged. Do I quit or keep trying?