Author: KJ

Doggies and flowers

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

Anna made a request today.

She wants to color doggies and flowers.  She told my therapist to tell me that.

Apparently she likes to color.  Which is odd, because I go through periods where I just need to sit down and color.  I haven’t in a while, though.  Luckily for Anna, I packed my crayons and a few coloring books when I moved.  I don’t think I have doggies, but I know I have flowers.  I hope that will be enough to make her happy.

I’m not sure why she came out today.  I really wanted to get through a session without dissociating.  Hell, I want to get through a day without dissociating.  I started to talk about how the past week or so has been very low for me.  I didn’t even get into the increased dissociation, just the emotional numbness, brain fog, and wanting to die.  I find it extremely frustrating/exhausting/confusing how I can be taking so many steps forward, and then within minutes, thoughts of dying take over inside my head.  Then it takes a massive effort to suppress those thoughts and not act on them.  I’m tired.  I don’t have the energy for this.  Why?  Why do I have to go through this all the time?  I told my therapist that no one cares.  Then she asked me if I thought that she didn’t care.  I corrected myself and told her I didn’t want anyone to care.  She asked me why, and I kept telling her it didn’t matter.  The reality is that it is easier to completely self-destruct when you know that no one cares about you anyway.  What scares me is that there are parts of me that believe that no one cares about them; there is nothing to stop them from total self-destruction.

I remember trying to keep myself present, but it was a struggle at that point.  My mind was reaching that clusterfuck stage and I was starting to lose my sense of reality.  I remember my therapist coming to sit next to me and that was it.  When I came back, my therapist was kneeling next to me holding a pillow up to my hands, asking if I was back.  Sometimes it feels like I’m waking up from a dream.  Sometimes it feels like I’m just way too drunk and lose sense of what’s going on.  It’s hard to explain.  I must have been fighting her off somewhat because she joked that I was too strong for her.  Then I saw my hand, swollen and raw.  The blood was still under my fingernails.  I’m sure she was trying her hardest to stop me, but I was a 7 year-old in a 29 year-old’s body.  What was she supposed to do?

I guess Anna is still afraid of talking too much.  My therapist did say that Anna feels like I am ignoring her.  I am ignoring her, I guess.  I don’t even really know her.  I don’t talk to her.  The only way she makes herself known to me is when I find missing patches of skin on my arms; then I know she was here.  How am I supposed to not ignore someone I don’t know?  I’m sorry, Anna.  I’ll try harder, I guess.  I’m still new to this.  I’m still learning.

Wandering in dissociation

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

My therapist was so happy to hear of my small accomplishments over the weekend: spending the day at the movies, going grocery shopping, buying vitamins, and trying carrots for the first time.  I also told her I went to the book store on Sunday and spent hours going through the Psychology section and picking out whatever books interested me.  I even picked up a book on writing and a GRE prep book.  She said it’s all a part of self-care and doing positive things for myself.

Then I told her how I just find places to go because I don’t want to go home.  I told her I didn’t really have a reason not to want to be home, but I just didn’t feel safe there.  Nothing specific happened, although there have been incidents in the past.  My therapist reminded me that even though it may seem physically safe in the moment, it hasn’t been in the past and it hasn’t been an emotionally safe place, either.  I guess I’ve just assumed that any place that is not my family home is a safe place.

Some days I leave the house at 5 AM and don’t get home until dark.  I try to hang around in stores or in public places.  If it’s late, I wander the streets.  Somehow, I always end up home.  Even if I end up in a place I don’t know, I have my phone and can map out a way back home.  I was trying to avoid going into detail because I knew what was coming.  She asked if I was present during all these times.  I looked around the room trying to avoid answering the question.  I didn’t want to get into it.  The truth is I know that I dissociate during those times.  I end up in places and I don’t know how I got there.  But at least I got there in one piece and I’ve been able to get home.  I don’t want to hear how dangerous it is.  Just let me wander.

My dissociation has been a little out of control lately, and I know that.  I took a 40 minute shower yesterday.  I was only present for about five minutes of it.  This morning I dissociated at work, thankfully not long enough for anyone to notice.  One day, I’m not going to be that lucky.

I am hoping the increase is temporary.  I have been under a lot of stress lately.  My anxiety is a little high (and I am sans good anxiety medication), my sleep has been shitty, I’ve been stressing about the new blog opportunity, about my friend issues, and about work.  It’s just a lot.  My mind is on overload.  I became so overwhelmed at therapy yesterday that I just wanted to give up.  I told my therapist I didn’t need therapy anymore.  The truth was that I was exhausted.  I just wanted to cry, but I didn’t even have the energy to do that.  Part of me was giving up.  But another part of me started to fight back.  The battle continues.

Letter to a friend

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I recently talked about an issue I was having with a friend who was (quite literally, as my therapist put it) playing devil’s advocate with my mother.  I decided to write her a letter, since I couldn’t seem to find the words when texting her or talking with her on the phone.  I mentioned the letter to my therapist in our usual e-mail updates this past weekend and she told me I could bring the letter with me to our session today if I hadn’t already sent it.  So I did.

The letter:

(Name),

Hello.  I hope you are doing well.  You haven’t really text or spoke to me much and I’m not sure if it’s because you’re busy or because of the things I said about my parents a couple of weeks ago.

I need you to know that what my mother tells you is not the truth.  It never has been; it never will be.  She is using you to get to me.  She is a dangerous person.  Please be aware of that if you choose to continue to engage with her.

I spent 29 years of my life trapped in a family that treated me in ways no person should ever be treated.  It took me years to gather the courage, the financial resources, and the strength to leave that prison.  I have escaped.  When you escape from a burning building, you don’t go back in; you’ll get burned.  If I go back home, I’m going to be hurt again.  I don’t deserve it.

I’m building a new life for myself now.  I’m no longer under my mother’s control.  I don’t have to worry about being attacked in my own home.  I am free.  I still live in fear, but hopefully that will change one day.

I need a lot of therapy and a lot of time to undo the damage that my family has done.  Talking to them, seeing them, or visiting them will only set my recovery back.  I don’t owe my family anything.  They are dead to me.  In fact, the only time I want to hear about them is when they die, so I can breathe a sigh of relief.

I just need you to understand why cutting my family out of my life is what’s best for me.  I need you to support my decision and stop advocating for my mother.  It hurts me when you do that because I feel like you are on her side.  I can’t involve myself with anyone who supports her.  I need you to feel what is in my heart.

I didn’t want to read it out loud.  I told my therapist it was horrible.  She asked me why it was horrible.  I told her “It just is.”  Then I took the letter from my bag and handed it to her.  She took her time and read it through.  She told me the letter wasn’t horrible at all.  She said it was honest and real and everything I needed to say to her.  She even got goosebumps reading one part of it.  I still insisted that it was horrible.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because everything I do is horrible.”

It was such a raw response from me.  I didn’t even think about it.  I still have it programmed in my head that everything I do ends up being wrong.  Sometimes I am able to override the programming; most times, I’m just too exhausted to bother and let the original programming run its course.  It’s also extremely unnatural for me to assert my needs in any way, and this letter was doing that.  I’ve lived my life for the last 29 years believing my needs were unimportant, because even my most basic needs were neglected.  It’s difficult for me.  People don’t realize just how hard it is to reprogram yourself when you’ve lived a certain way for so long.

We talked about what would happen once I sent the letter.  I said I didn’t think it would matter; I still don’t think my friend would understand.  I’m not emotionally ready to handle that reality yet.  I’m not ready to grieve another loss.  This woman was like a mother to me.  I told my therapist I couldn’t go through losing a mother again.  I already lost my real one (who was never there to begin with), and here I am about to lose the one I replaced her with.  What is so wrong with me that I can’t even have a mother to love me?

My therapist and I both agreed that I wasn’t ready to send the letter yet.  I don’t know when I’ll be ready.  It’s going to have to be soon, because I know the issue is going to come up again.  I can’t keep putting out fires.  It’s exhausting.  I’m not a firefighter.  I’m just a girl trying to get by.

A few steps back, a few steps forward

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

Last night was weird for me.

I’m not even sure why it happened, but I started to feel unsafe and fearful.  I knew it because I locked my bedroom door and kept checking it, and then I kept trying to barricade my door.  There was no reason to.  This time, I was semi-conscious of what I was doing, so I was able to stop myself from going overboard.  I knew I needed to convince myself that I was safe and was where I belonged.  I kept a small light on so I could see what was going on around me.  I held my bear close to me.  I searched through my bags to find my note card from the retreat I went on in April.  I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but I carried that card with me every day up until a few weeks ago.  It was written by the woman who, oddly enough, later became my therapist.  Among some other things, it says:

You are deserving of a healthy, safe life.  We are here to support you and believe in you.  You are stronger than you believe.

I memorized those words.  I’ve told myself those words.  I deserve a healthy, safe life.  I am safe.  I deserve this.  I’ve made the right choice.  I must have read that card at least 50 times last night.  It’s like I had to convince myself all over again that this was the right decision, and that I’m in a safe place and can’t be hurt again.  It was exhausting.  I still went through today with a general feeling of uneasiness.  Now I am back to carrying around that note card, for now at least.  I feel like I regressed a little, and I don’t even really have a reason for it.

On a more positive note, I did make some progress and went grocery shopping today.  I told myself I was going to try at least one new food.  I chose carrots.  Adventurous, I know.  That’s probably an easy way out for me considering I eat a lot of vegetables, but at least it’s a different color from what I usually eat.  Aside from that, I stayed with my usual food choices.  I did find those chocolate brownie vitamins my therapist informed me of and bought them.  I also bought dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.  I may have gotten excited when I saw them, and even more excited that they were 40% off.  I’m not sure if that was me, my inner child, or Anna wanting those nuggets, but I bought them regardless.  And I’m going to enjoy the shit out of them along with my chocolate brownie vitamins and Cocoa Puffs.

Eight Weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

It’s been eight weeks now.  I’m still free.  I’m still alive.

I have bad days.  I have okay days.  I never really have good days, but that’s okay; there’s still time for those.

Physically, I could be better.  I’ve lost over 30 pounds.  I know it’s from a combination of not eating enough and being sick.  It’s not that I can’t afford to lose it, because I can, but that’s a lot to lose in a short period of time.  I’m trying to make a conscious effort to eat, but it’s difficult.  My roommate does her best to try to get me to eat.  She’s even tried to memorize the foods I eat and the foods I absolutely will not touch.  The other night, my roommate’s boyfriend asked if I wanted a garlic knot.  I reluctantly obliged.  He was so genuinely happy that I wanted to eat something that he shouted out in celebration.  Small steps.  I also made a promise to my therapist that I would at least start taking vitamins.  She actually found a vitamin for me that was chewable and non-fruit-flavored, so I have no excuses not to take it.

My foot is feeling a little better.  I’ve been upgraded to a space boot that goes up to my calf.  I’m supposed to wear the boot for at least two more weeks until I go back to the orthopedist again.  I’m also supposed to use crutches, but I was a little rebellious today and decided at the last second to go without.  I did fine.  I walked a lot slower than I would have if I used the crutches, but that’s okay.  But I didn’t fall.  I’m still standing.  The orthopedist mentioned I had quite a few old fractures show on x-ray.  All I could think was yea, I’m sure there are old fractures all over my body.  It’s probably why I have so many issues with bone pain now, and why I have random bone spurs throughout my body.  I guess my body wants to remind me of that pain again.

I had a bit of a meltdown last night.  I had this weekend off of work (which never happens, and will likely never happen again for a long time), so I was planning to go back and visit my very good friends back home (Is it really home?  I don’t know what to call it.).  I had mentioned it to my therapist in yesterday’s session and told her that I worked out all the possible scenarios in my head and it still seemed like it would be more of a positive thing for me.  I miss them more than anything.  Aside from my therapist and my roommate, I am alone here.  I told my friend and he seemed happy.  Then I text my other friend about it.  She said that was great, then she said “so are you visiting your parents?”  My heart sank and I became overwhelmed with emotions.  Why would I visit the very people I ran away from?  It’s not like my friend is not aware of the situation; she knows, though not in detail, what my mother has done to me.  Is that not enough of a reason for me to leave?  Does she not believe me?  I don’t understand it.  I shouldn’t have to justify why I want nothing to do with them.  I feel like she is on their side and not on mine.  I also felt, at that point, that by visiting her, I could be risking my own safety if she told my mother I was coming.

I had so much running through my head last night and couldn’t get myself together, so I e-mailed my therapist.  That in itself is a big step for me, because I rarely if ever reach out when I need it.  She e-mailed me back in the middle of the night.  I checked my e-mail around 3 AM and read her thorough response, and I knew that going back wasn’t the right thing to do.  Ultimately, she said if I had any doubt in my mind about my ability to trust these friends, that it is most important to protect myself and my new life here.  Unfortunately, when I hear/read comments like I did from my friend, my ability to trust that friend becomes damaged.  There is a disconnect somewhere and I don’t know how to fix it.  I can’t make someone understand something they are choosing not to accept.  My therapist told me I need to advocate for myself if this friend continues to play devil’s advocate; if that doesn’t work, the relationship may just not be worth the effort.  I have to put energy into my new life.  I don’t want to have to waste energy in unnecessarily deflecting dangers from my past when they can just as easily be avoided.  It’s sad.  It makes me cry just thinking about it (I’m crying as I type this damn sentence).  But I have to do what’s best for me for once.  It just bothers me that in the end, I’m once again going to look like the shitty person.

It just sucks because I feel alone as it is.  I can’t afford to lose more people.  While I have made a couple new friends, it takes a lot of time and effort to build strong relationships.  I turned down spending time with a friend today because I thought I was going to visit back home, and instead I ended up by myself.  Maybe I needed it.  Who knows.  I’m not really sure what I need.

I’m still having trouble coming to terms with my diagnosis.  I mean, I’m getting there…slowly…reluctantly.  My therapist told me that my prognosis is good.  She could have just been trying to make me feel better.  Who knows.  She said I’m intelligent and functioning; I guess that plays in my favor.  It’d just be so much easier if I didn’t dissociate.  Most ‘normal’ people don’t even understand dissociation.  How are they going to understand me?

Nothing like a little Sunday morning dissociation

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

I couldn’t really think of a title that appropriately summed up my Sunday.  I found it a little humorous, and honestly I have to laugh.  My life is so chaotic, yet I wouldn’t have it any other way.  As much as I am dealing with, I’m getting through it.  I’m learning more about myself, and about my illness every day.

It was 3:30-3:40 in the morning on Sunday when I was startled awake by someone pounding on the door.  I didn’t know who it was.  I only knew what time it was because I immediately looked at my phone.  Then banging got louder.  I went into panic mode, thinking either my mother finally found me, or she sent the police to come get me (she regularly threatened to call the police on me – so while not logical, it’s something that is ingrained in my head).  I don’t remember what happened after that.  What I can tell you is that somehow, I ended up in my closet, where I woke up/came back to reality/whatever you want to call it holding my blanket and my arms covered in scratches.  It was almost an hour and a half later; I heard a commotion outside.  I figured out who it was; thankfully, he was not my mother or the police.  I still felt unsafe and uneasy.  I didn’t find out until later that night that my roommate was not even home when the door-banging occurred; I was completely alone.  Thankfully some part of me had the sense to hide in the closet.

That got me thinking about what made that part of me hide in the closet.  I remember that my mother barricaded our closet doors so that we could not use them.  I always thought that was strange.  Who has closets and blocks them off completely?  Did I used to hide in there and that’s why she closed them off?  I wonder what it would have been like to have a closet.  Would I have been able to hide from her?  I’m sure she would have found me.  She always did.  Like a monster with eyes and ears all around her head, she knew where I was, what I said, what I did.  A closet wouldn’t have protected me.  That’s just silly.

Then again, it makes sense I would hide in a closet.  I still do a lot of things to protect myself that don’t really make much logical sense.  I’ve been doing them since childhood that they’ve become a part of my regular.  I always wear at least two pairs of underwear, sometimes even three pairs.  Does it make sense?  No.  That extra pair isn’t going to protect me.  But as a child, I’m sure I thought it was going to help.  I also always wear multiple layers of clothing, even in the summer, even if it makes me sweat.  Extra clothing makes me feel more protected and less vulnerable.  Maybe she won’t make me undress if it’s too much to take off.  Most embarrassing of all is my habit of stuffing myself with toilet paper.  I remember doing it as young as 8.  I thought if I could just block that whole area with toilet paper, she wouldn’t be able to touch me anymore; she wouldn’t be able to hurt me.  I created a literal barrier between her and my genitals.  It was so uncomfortable, but I wanted her to stop.  Of course it didn’t work.  She caught on.  I still did it, but not every day; only when I was feeling especially vulnerable.  Even in my adolescence and adulthood, when I had (and have) and ability to say no, I still find myself doing the same thing when I am feeling especially vulnerable or re-traumatized in some way.

As far as I’ve come, I am still very much a traumatized child living inside a traumatized adult.

Seven weeks

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I’ve made it seven weeks now.

I’m bruised.  I’m broken.  This time, though, it wasn’t at the hands of my mother; it was caused by the hard cement of the sidewalk I fell into Wednesday morning.  I refuse to let another person ever break me like that again.  The sidewalk and I will need to have a discussion, too, because this can’t happen again.

Despite my fractured foot, I’ve been going to work.  I wake up 40 minutes earlier  because it takes me 40 minutes to walk to the bus stop.  I leave my house in the night and end up getting to the bus stop at dawn.  But it’s what I have to do.  Broken bones don’t pay the bills.  I leave my crutches in the break room at work and shuffle around and get my job done – a little slower, for sure, but the work still gets done.  I can’t not work.  I don’t have time to be disabled.  I’m exhausted by the end of the day, but maybe that’s a good thing.  That means there’s less energy available to screw other shit up.  Most nights, I just want to lay in bed and cry; but that doesn’t make the pain go away.  It just gives me horrible cry face.

I got my first paycheck today.  It wasn’t much, but it just feels a little better getting some sort of income in.  I still need another job or two.  Or a rich a husband.  I’m okay with either scenario.

I’ve been socializing so much more than what is normal for me.  It’s still difficult for me.  I still find myself struggling to respond.  But I am trying.  For some reason, people are naturally drawn to me.  That is the worst for someone who is socially anxious.  It’s a process.  It is also difficult for me to understand why someone would want to like me enough to talk to me (I know, a lot of childhood brainwashing there).  It’s something I’m slowly overcoming.  The other day, I exchanged jokes with a bus driver, which turned into a short, but polite conversation.  Yesterday, I engaged in a conversation over broken bones with an older gentleman who had more metal in him than bone.  And today, another bus driver and I talked about which place had the best cappuccino.  I still let the other side do most of the talking, but for me, it’s progress.  I’m doing a lot better considering where I was before.  It’s almost as if the simple lack of my mother’s presence has been enough to lift some of the fears and anxieties I had in speaking with other people.

On another good note, I finally received feedback for my thesis.  My grade: 99.  I have been obsessively checking all week, as if I were afraid I was going to fail the paper.  I didn’t expect to get a 99.  One grammatical error.  One point away from perfection.  In a way, it relates so much to my life.  As much as I strive to be perfect, my life will never be perfect.  But if I work hard enough, it can be damn near close enough to perfect.

Progressing in therapy

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

I sat here debating whether “progressing” was an appropriate word to describe my experience in therapy.  I’m still not 100% sure, but I’m going to go with it anyway.

I look forward to therapy, while at the same time have some fear about what might happen.  Sometimes our sessions are an hour.  Sometimes they are a couple of hours.  You can never really tell how it will end up.  I’m still going twice a week; that won’t change any time soon.  I also e-mail my therapist between sessions to check in; sometimes she even gives me homework (I’m making a face right now just thinking about it).  But it works for us.

My therapist is amazing.  I’m pretty sure she gets me.  Sometimes she doesn’t know whether I am being genuine or sarcastic – I consider that my talent (with anyone, not just her).  But she’s really smart and knows her shit, even when it’s random shit.  I e-mailed her last night to tell her that I had eaten a potato (it had been three days since I had eaten) and she e-mailed me back this morning comparing my choice of eating a potato to Carol Rogers’ description of human actualization, in which he compared the process to that of a potato, which will strive to grow in the most unfavorable, sunless, earthless conditions; with nourishment and sunlight, in the right environment, it can become what it is meant to be.  While some people might think that was weird, I quite adore Carl Rogers and I am a psychology nerd, so I enjoy random facts like that.  It made my day.  She’s also very in tune with my needs and knows my limits.  And she gives me a hug after every session and tells me all the positive things I’m doing, even though I don’t believe all of them.

Therapy has been a little slow because I’ve had so many issues come up that we haven’t had much time to begin to process the MDSA.  Yesterday was the first time we actually started.  It wasn’t much; we watched the first part of a documentary (less than 10 minutes) and then stopped it to discuss.  Before we watched it, my therapist prepared me for how we should deal with whatever would happen.  If I needed to take a break, to tell her I needed a break.  Then she asked me if I were to dissociate, did I want her to bring me back right away or could she keep me in that state?  My mind just went blank.  I’ve spent years learning about DID and dissociative disorders.  I never once thought I would have to be making these decisions for myself.  Everything is different when it’s something you experience.

The documentary part wasn’t anything tremendously difficult.  What stood out to me the most was one of the women in the documentary saying how her mother made her out to be the crazy one.  That was just…exactly my life.  Then talking about that progressed into my use of the word crazy, and how my mother liked to use that word to describe me to everybody…and here I was using it myself.  It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?

I’m not entirely clear on how the rest of therapy went.  I remember my financial issues being brought up again.  I remember mentioning how I didn’t want to turn into my parents, depending on others for support.  I really don’t remember much else.  I came back from a long dissociation wrapped in a blanket, holding a stuffed lion, with my arm red and bleeding.  I don’t even know how I ended up there, or what happened while I was out.  She just told me I was hurting myself.  All I could do was apologize.  Why can’t I have happy dissociations that are all about sunshine and rainbows instead of bouts of self-destruction?  It also sucks that I can’t remember.  I just want to remember.  My therapist insists that I’m making progress and taking steps forward.  I just don’t know.  I see dissociating as a failure.  I guess I got by before because I wasn’t so acutely aware of it as I am now because now I have someone pointing it out.

I was feeling a little down about what happened in therapy.  I feel like we hugged forever because I didn’t want to let go.  As I was writing her the check, I asked what the date was (I am horrible about keeping track of the date).  When she told me, I remembered that the date was also my parents’ anniversary.  Without thinking, I said “Oh, that’s my parents’ anniversary.  I hope they die in a fire.”  I realized what came out of my mouth, but before I could feel bad about it, my therapist actually validated what I said.  She didn’t tell me what a horrible thing it was to think or say; she sort of, indirectly, agreed.  What a great feeling that was.  For once, I didn’t feel bad about wanting those evil people to die.  Unfortunately, I don’t think they died in a fire.  Yet.  There’s still time.

When I got home last night and melted into my bed, I looked at my arm where I had scratched myself hours before.  Then I realized something.  This was something I had done before.  I remember as a child, I would scratch my skin raw.  I had to go to the doctor to make sure it wasn’t a contagious disease; it wasn’t contagious…it wasn’t an obvious allergy…the doctors weren’t really sure what caused it.  It happened regularly throughout my childhood and even as a teenager and occasionally as an adult.  Sometimes I would wake up with my skin like that, so I assumed I would scratch in my sleep.  No one ever really made an issue out of it.  And now I’m sitting here wondering if there is a connection.  Could I have dissociated that young?  And why the hell would I scratch my skin off?  What is wrong with me?

You win, universe.

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

Yesterday, I went through several moments when I genuinely hated my life.  I wanted to tell the universe I surrender! Please! Just stop throwing me curve balls! It seems like when I finally have a good portion of my shit put together, the universe laughs at me and says “here, have some of this.”  Cruel universe.

As I was walking to work yesterday morning, I fell in the street.  Thankfully it was early enough in the morning that no one was around to see it.  I dragged my ass to the curb and sat for a few minutes until I could gather the strength to get up.  One knee was banged up, the other knee was scraped and bleeding, my elbow was scraped, both of my palms were scraped from trying to break my fall, and I somehow managed to cut up my thumb and forefinger.  What was my main concern?  Fuck, I’m going to be late for the bus.  I brushed all the dirt off of pants, wiped the blood off of my hands, and hobbled along to the bus stop, which, by the way, I still managed to make on time.  I stopped off at Starbucks before work so I could clean myself off.

Somehow, I made it through work.  I went to the bathroom often just so I could sit down for a little.  I was concerned with my knee more than anything.  It was already swelling up and bruising.  I was just trying to make it through the work day so I could go home and ice it.  I made it home after 2 o’clock, took my sneakers off, and five minutes later, I felt shooting pains in my foot.  The top of my foot was so swollen, it looked like half a tennis ball was sitting on it.  Fuck.  I was so focused on my knee, I didn’t even notice my foot.  I laid down in bed for an hour to see if I felt any better, but nothing was changing.  Fuck fuck fuck.  That’s all that went through my head.  This is not the time.  I don’t have the time for this.  I debated going to the hospital.  Not only did I not want to be sitting in the ER forever, but I just kept telling myself I was overreacting.  But then I remembered what happened years ago.  I fractured my Lisfranc, dealt with the pain instead of going to the doctor, and had a shitload of problems because of it. I didn’t want to go through that again.  So I took myself to the ER.

Thankfully the entire visit was two hours, if that.  I must say, that is one good thing about that hospital.  I told them, my knee looks a whole lot worse, but my foot is what I’m concerned about.  They took x-rays of both.  The doctor thought for sure something was going to be wrong with my knee just from looking at it, but it’s just a mild sprain.  My foot is fucked though.  I fractured my midfoot.  I’m in a splint up to my knee with crutches until I can see ortho to get a boot/cast.  No weight-bearing at all.  I cried when the doctor left to get the splint.  Why does this shit happen to me?

I can’t not work.  I just started.  I already missed my first few days because I was in the hospital.  I will squeeze a damn sneaker on my foot somehow if I have to.  I can’t not work.  I need to work.  I don’t have time for setbacks.  Here I am talking about getting a second job and now I have to figure out how to keep my first one.  I’m tired.  Can I get a break?