I’m Still Here
I’m having a difficult time publishing anything here without addressing the very large elephant in the room, which is my absence for the past several months. I’m not sure anyone even needs it, but as someone who often stumbles into random places on the internet, I have this visual of someone finding their way to my site and thinking, “What happened here? Did she die?”
I meeeean…kind of?
Not to be melodramatic, but yes, it sort of feels like it. I don’t think I’ve fully acknowledged what happened out of self-preservation, but as that’s part of moving on, let’s get this over with.
If you’re new here, if this is the first thing you’re seeing from me (this is a really awkward way to meet each other and I’m sorry but!), hi, I’m Natalie. I had a traumatic skiing accident in January where I broke my ankle in multiple places, sustained a spiral fracture in my fibula, and also tore some ligaments because WHY NOT. I’ve spent most of the year on my sofa with my dog trying to rest and heal, and I’ve spent the remainder of the year thus far trying to relearn how to walk and do totally normal things like go to the grocery store or take a shower. And it has been hard. Like, really hard.
But I’m still here.
I think a year from now I’ll look back and think to myself, “I can’t believe I actually went through that.” But that requires the recognition that this whole experience has been real. And maybe it’s because it happened in the middle of a global pandemic (which also doesn’t seem real), but I’m still not all the way there yet. Again, self-preservation.
In an ironic turn of events, I declared “joy” my word of the year in January. I asked some of my Instagram friends if they had a word or phrase of their own, and a handful of people shared.
“Manifest.”
“Try.”
I thought I might change mine depending on the responses, but “joy” stuck. I confessed that I wasn’t prone to feeling joy. That it wasn’t an automatic emotional response. But I’d hoped to cultivate joy by putting more of a focus on it in my day to day life.
Can I find joy in the midst of a pandemic?
I can try.
I relished in taking a steaming hot shower. Snuggling my puppies. Chatting on the phone with a good friend. Working on about a dozen house projects at once. Meditating almost everyday.
Small things. Things that cost me almost no money. Except the dogs — they are not cheap. And I actually felt better!
But a few weeks later it transitioned to:
Can I find joy in the midst of shattering my body on the side of a mountain?
I tried my best, but I don’t know if I did a very good job. I’m innately hard on myself. Those I’m closest to know this about me. I appreciated every meal. Every call and text and message to check in. Every care package. Every effort. But in the back of my mind, my brain was stuck on a loop that said, “something is wrong here.” And it was on that loop for months.
It was the worst about a month after surgery because there was no release valve for the stress and shame and pain I was experiencing. I felt like a pressure cooker.
I enjoy a day on the couch just as much as anyone else. But that’s a day — not a few months. Someone recently asked what I took up with all my down time, and I responded, “TV.” I felt so guilty. But as someone who previously spent so much time fixing and writing and cleaning and doing, after my accident, I found it impossible to do much of anything. My brain was in panic mode. I could not make my own coffee. I could not write. I could barely brush my own hair. It was all I could do to camp out in front of the TV and watch “Sex and the City” or “Schitt’s Creek” while shoving Extra Toasty Cheez-its down my throat for days on end (the family size box in case you’re wondering).
Still, I’ve tried to cling to the glimmers of light shining through. Standing on my own for the first time. Taking my first few steps without crutches. Riding my bike. Being able to walk without my foot swelling up like a balloon. Being able to walk a mile. Pushing my little neighbor to the park in his stroller and putting him on the slide over and over. Getting dressed in something other than my husband’s basketball shorts. Eating something other than comfort food for every single meal (and no judgment if you do, I can just tell this is a sign i’m not feeling my best). Being able to help others instead of having to be the one needing help all the time (I can’t help it, I’m an enneagram 2!).
There have been a million tiny victories along the way, and I’ve taken note of them all. But the emotional wounds remain. I’ve tried writing about what actually happened the day of my accident, but I don’t know if I can post that here. It still feels too heavy. Too raw. And if I can admit something a little embarrassing (we like to tell the truth around here), I feel like a victim. Even though I begrudgingly — but voluntarily! — signed myself up for that ski trip, I find myself struggling with a victim mentality that I thought I’d exorcised from my system a long time ago. I guess I’m a victim of circumstance. I just kind of hate the word “victim.” However, calling myself a survivor doesn’t seem fitting because there are people that endure far worse. I suppose we can just call it what it is: bad luck.
All that to say, next January I plan on declaring “losing lottery ticket” as my phrase of the year.
We’ll see what the universe throws my way.
Edit: I wrote this post yesterday afternoon around 3:30, and a little over 6 hours later, my debit card was compromised. Suffice to say, I’m done with the declarations for a while…Or maybe I’ll just keep them to myself!
