Thought Collage Angst Vomit
The last staples came out. One of them had grown with the skin so when my dad yanked it, the skin pulled apart and it bled. Awesome. The redness continued to go away as I took antibiotics, kept my foot elevated, and wore my compression sock. The bulge in my leg is also doing relatively better. So for the most part, I'm on the mend. Walking with crutches got old real quick though, not to mention that sometimes I stumble. Up until a few days ago, I hadn't ever fallen, and technically, I still haven't; but I have put full weight on my broken leg twice now, and that's not fun, or pain-free. So there is some new bruising on my ankle and my leg continues throbbing.
We finally found a doctor that will see me, after looking for almost two weeks and exhausting every source we could find. I have my first appt March 18th, so look for an update then.
Moving into my room happened a bit ago, but I never talked about it. I had my bed moved over to the window so I can look out and see the sky and trees, also had the mattress switched for the one in the guest room because the other one was too hard. Then I had the wall unit moved further down so I could get a bedside table. I don't know what it is about these, but I've become one who absolutely needs his bedside table. There's just something about having a lamp right there; my candle warmer and my radio too. Then I needed a bookcase, because, hello, books. (I still miss my 150+ books that got left behind. I don't that I will ever recover from that separation. So my dad went to wherever he has things and got out my bookcase from waaaaaay back when. Like High School. He still has it for some odd reason. It's jungle green, as was my room when we still lived in Ohio, and makes me miss my childhood. This is odd because I don't usually (maybe never?) miss my childhood. It was a pretty lonely, dark, and confusing time that sometimes I still don't understand how I made it through. Must've been the strength of the few and far between, but oh so important friend, like Emmy. We moved the Big Blue Chair over by the wall unit so I could sit close and hurt my eyes when I watch HEROES or The Sarah Connor Chronicles or play video games.
All I needed was a desk. I went with my mom to a Christian Donation Store, and my parents looked at Goodwill and IKEA. There was nothing good for a reasonable price. So my pops just built one. That's part of why my pops is cool. He built our giant playcenter in our backyard that we played on for years and years. He just does that. So he built me a desk. And when he was done, my mom was like, "Wow. That is a nice desk. If the legs matched the top, I'd buy that." Lol Well, the legs don't match, but I don't care. I have a desk now, so I have a place for my pens and my notebooks and my computer and I have a space for writing, and that's so important to me I can't even explicate it satisfactorily. It's just vital, okay?
As I said previously, I'm doing okay. At least that's the lie that I tell myself and all of you, to try and stay sane.
I'm so sick of just sitting around. I want to go skateboarding, play frisbee, go swimming, go geocaching, even run. Anything active and out-of-doors. That's who I am and what I do. I don't do sit on the couch for days on end and watch movies and read books and write a little. I did that a little in Idaho, but the option was at least there to at any second get up and go do something outside. I feel like a prisoner. In a prison that is not entirely of someone else's making. How many of these bars are mine? How tight have I made my own shackles? I just want to be free again.
One of the things I'm most sick about is the deep mark this event has left. It's like a milestone, a marker, something to measure before and after, and that bothers me. This does not rank with my mission, or my wedding, or having my first kid. This...this was a tragedy and it is a stain that I don't want around me. But it is, and I can't do anything about it. It's become a marker, and I don't know how to reverse that. "This is the first time I've done/worn [insert activity/item] since my accident." Or when my mom points out, "Those are the shoes he was wearing when he got hit." It just makes me feel ill to know that this will ALWAYS be with me. I'm not ready to be okay with that. Why SHOULD I be okay with that? I need my time to grieve, I need my time to be less than strong, I need my moments where people can scream at me, tell me to get over myself, and move on. I need that. Okay?
Sigh. This is not what this post was supposed to be about. But I guess this is boiling in my heart so I need to let it out before it becomes infected and I have to go to ER again.
Likewise, I'm tired of talking about it. I'm tired of telling the story. Just like when you were in school and you broke your arm or something and then you'd have to tell the story in every period, to every class, to every teacher, over and over and over. Well, now my friends circle spans continents and knows almost no bounds, and so the story-telling is indefinite. It just goes and goes and goes. And I'm a little sick of it, okay? So no offense to you if you haven't found out, or you're just finding out, and I just send you a link to my blog. I'm just sick of this damn event and I'm ready to move on with my life... that's broken, and stuck, and can't do anything normal again yet.
I'm always the strong one, the leaning post, the person everyone turns to when they have problems, and I'm fine with that. I've always been fine with that. I'll hold you, and hug you, and talk to you at any hour of any day, and I'll change your world bit by bit. But you have to realize that I'm just as human as the next, and this rant is me needing to deal with the pain and suffering, and super thick icicles that are taking over my heart. I have a right to break down, a right to cry, and a right to be pissed off about this. Just because I was hurt doesn't mean I shouldn't bleed. Just because I help you doesn't mean I can't call a time out and have a little breakdown myself. So there it is in all its whiny teenage angst.
Having a broken leg is like mashing my face repeatedly into a fresh cowpie.
We finally found a doctor that will see me, after looking for almost two weeks and exhausting every source we could find. I have my first appt March 18th, so look for an update then.
Moving into my room happened a bit ago, but I never talked about it. I had my bed moved over to the window so I can look out and see the sky and trees, also had the mattress switched for the one in the guest room because the other one was too hard. Then I had the wall unit moved further down so I could get a bedside table. I don't know what it is about these, but I've become one who absolutely needs his bedside table. There's just something about having a lamp right there; my candle warmer and my radio too. Then I needed a bookcase, because, hello, books. (I still miss my 150+ books that got left behind. I don't that I will ever recover from that separation. So my dad went to wherever he has things and got out my bookcase from waaaaaay back when. Like High School. He still has it for some odd reason. It's jungle green, as was my room when we still lived in Ohio, and makes me miss my childhood. This is odd because I don't usually (maybe never?) miss my childhood. It was a pretty lonely, dark, and confusing time that sometimes I still don't understand how I made it through. Must've been the strength of the few and far between, but oh so important friend, like Emmy. We moved the Big Blue Chair over by the wall unit so I could sit close and hurt my eyes when I watch HEROES or The Sarah Connor Chronicles or play video games.
All I needed was a desk. I went with my mom to a Christian Donation Store, and my parents looked at Goodwill and IKEA. There was nothing good for a reasonable price. So my pops just built one. That's part of why my pops is cool. He built our giant playcenter in our backyard that we played on for years and years. He just does that. So he built me a desk. And when he was done, my mom was like, "Wow. That is a nice desk. If the legs matched the top, I'd buy that." Lol Well, the legs don't match, but I don't care. I have a desk now, so I have a place for my pens and my notebooks and my computer and I have a space for writing, and that's so important to me I can't even explicate it satisfactorily. It's just vital, okay?
As I said previously, I'm doing okay. At least that's the lie that I tell myself and all of you, to try and stay sane.
I'm so sick of just sitting around. I want to go skateboarding, play frisbee, go swimming, go geocaching, even run. Anything active and out-of-doors. That's who I am and what I do. I don't do sit on the couch for days on end and watch movies and read books and write a little. I did that a little in Idaho, but the option was at least there to at any second get up and go do something outside. I feel like a prisoner. In a prison that is not entirely of someone else's making. How many of these bars are mine? How tight have I made my own shackles? I just want to be free again.
One of the things I'm most sick about is the deep mark this event has left. It's like a milestone, a marker, something to measure before and after, and that bothers me. This does not rank with my mission, or my wedding, or having my first kid. This...this was a tragedy and it is a stain that I don't want around me. But it is, and I can't do anything about it. It's become a marker, and I don't know how to reverse that. "This is the first time I've done/worn [insert activity/item] since my accident." Or when my mom points out, "Those are the shoes he was wearing when he got hit." It just makes me feel ill to know that this will ALWAYS be with me. I'm not ready to be okay with that. Why SHOULD I be okay with that? I need my time to grieve, I need my time to be less than strong, I need my moments where people can scream at me, tell me to get over myself, and move on. I need that. Okay?
Sigh. This is not what this post was supposed to be about. But I guess this is boiling in my heart so I need to let it out before it becomes infected and I have to go to ER again.
Likewise, I'm tired of talking about it. I'm tired of telling the story. Just like when you were in school and you broke your arm or something and then you'd have to tell the story in every period, to every class, to every teacher, over and over and over. Well, now my friends circle spans continents and knows almost no bounds, and so the story-telling is indefinite. It just goes and goes and goes. And I'm a little sick of it, okay? So no offense to you if you haven't found out, or you're just finding out, and I just send you a link to my blog. I'm just sick of this damn event and I'm ready to move on with my life... that's broken, and stuck, and can't do anything normal again yet.
I'm always the strong one, the leaning post, the person everyone turns to when they have problems, and I'm fine with that. I've always been fine with that. I'll hold you, and hug you, and talk to you at any hour of any day, and I'll change your world bit by bit. But you have to realize that I'm just as human as the next, and this rant is me needing to deal with the pain and suffering, and super thick icicles that are taking over my heart. I have a right to break down, a right to cry, and a right to be pissed off about this. Just because I was hurt doesn't mean I shouldn't bleed. Just because I help you doesn't mean I can't call a time out and have a little breakdown myself. So there it is in all its whiny teenage angst.
Having a broken leg is like mashing my face repeatedly into a fresh cowpie.
Comments
Love you. Miss you.
If you have a local library your parents can go get a book for you from, you should look at Energy Medicine by Donna Eden. It's one of Angie's text books.
PS, Angie loves and misses you too.