Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad
On Monday I took my dogs on a mile-and-a-half walk around the neighborhood. Our morning walk is the final grasp on daily exercise I haven't totally dropped yet, and I rely on it greatly to create normalcy in my life. A life that is by all other accounts, sliding off the rails. Monday's walk itself was uneventfully wonderful, until I stepped off the curb to return home, and rolled my right ankle. Later that day I woefully reported to a friend, "I twisted my ankle and it's mildly swollen and minorly sore--and I really need this to get better by tomorrow." Full of determination to not let yet one more lame-ass problem screw up my life, I iced it, took Advil, and wrapped it up in an Ace bandage. By Wednesday the bruise was still quite pronounced, but my range of motion was pretty much fine.
But on Wednesday between my flare and med change, and the fact that I hadn't slept for two nights, I woke up crying. Emotionally raw and too sensitive to exist with the world, I proceeded with my obligations as best as I could. Except for on Wednesday when I was returning from my walk, a woman almost ran me over in the crosswalk. Twice. So as I yielded the right-of-way, I yelled at the bitch. Dirty words, you bet your sweet ass. Then the man behind her yelled at me for yelling at her. ARE YOU FLIPPIN' KIDDIN' ME????? So I flipped him off and burst into tears. I wanted to scream, "Do you want to kill me too?" but was too overwhelmed with the complete mess of a human being I had devolved into. So I walked home sobbing, past the mailman I see every day, and proceeded to wail like a baby for the next three hours. I mean, what on earth is this--a world of horrible people I'm just supposed to exist in, and have I become one of them? I finally got a grip and decided I wasn't allowed the luxury of having emotions at this time in my life, and tried my damnedest to make myself numb. What a peach my husband had to come home to last night.
So today I'm gun-shy about taking the same walk I've taken every day since I bought my Yorkie ten years ago. I don't want to get killed and don't trust my reactions toward the people who may try, or defend those who do. But I'm trying to be the tough chick who pulled herself from the depths by taking no excuses, so on my walk we go. Or more precisely, we try. Because this time, in my paranoid preoccupation with not getting hit by dangerous drivers, I step off the curb and into a pothole--and splay face-first into the middle of the street. My dogs do, too. Luckily my guardian angel preoccupied the greater Los Angeles driving-brigade until I was able to collect myself, my children, my belongings, and hobble over to the curb. And wouldn't you know it, I rolled the other ankle. So here I sit with a bloody knee, ice on my left ankle, scrapes on my elbows, and puppies who are freaked out but fine. Thank God. Wondering why the hell I'm back in 2013 again. I mean, I barely survived it once. What on earth makes anyone think I can survive it again?
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