Lately I’ve been somewhat of a sourpuss. Fine! Have it your way, then; I’ve been an utterly petulantly, self-indulgently moody sourpuss.
You will remember my ankle, perhaps? I sprained one of the tendons that run along the top of the foot. Who knew an injury would alter and augment my cheerful disposition to this degree. Pain, I suppose, will do that to you. And not just pain, but inconveniencing pain. Not only does it take me three times as long to get anywhere, but my workouts — my nightly, sanity reviving workouts, freeing this writer of a day copious with discouragement and defeat — are devoid of all the exercises that raise my heart-rate, which in turn make me sweat, which in turn release those delightful little endorphins that so obligingly bring me happiness. Well, I can’t have that, can I? So, I decided to just do them anyway. This is where I tell you I injured my ankle over 2 weeks ago and the swelling has NOT gone down. Hm . . . why ever could that be?
I’ve cried more this week than I have in the past 3 months. It hurts — all the time. The effect is maddening. There is no question as to why torturing people with physical pain is the most effective means of returning the desired result. You just want it to stop! You’ll do anything to make is stop hurting; down a bottle of Ibuprofen, drink a bottle of whisky, bludgeon yourself repeatedly over the head with your sweet Chihuahua (Breathe — Bella is just fine, I assure you).
Now I suppose there are those Jason Statham, Daniel Craig, Demi Moore personality types with very high thresholds, able to endure longer and more than the rest of us weaklings. Let me be clear: I am not one of them. A Pansy is not only a flower, it is also Cara when she hurts herself.
What I find most disconcerting is that there is no room for other thoughts, people, events when my head is crowded with pain. Have you noticed this in your life? I can think only of the present and nothing beyond. This is a problem.
Being in a constant state of discomfort and torpor takes a toll one’s happiness, purloining joy and erasing all sense of gratitude. I just want to feel better. This is my prayer, my plea; I cry out for relief from this affliction. Heal me, Father! I imagine Him up there, a loving smile of tolerant affection on His face.
God: “Stop doing everything you shouldn’t be doing, and you will heal, Cara.”
Cara: “But I don’t want to.”
God: “Then change either your perspective or your behavior.”
Cara: “Well, thank you, but no thank you. What else can you offer me?”
God: “A grumpy heart.”
Cara: “No! I will not have a grumpy heart! No! You can’t make– Oh . . . I see what you did there.”
And so putting my will above His, I shall remain malcontent, my eudomonia a thing I remember with wistful longing.
Adding to my dilemma is one more thing. There is always “one more thing”, isn’t there? Because I uphold my craft from the comfort of my bed, my bed is no longer comfortable. Let me explain: I sit on my tailbone for upwards of 8-10 hours a day. And while I do get up and roam around from time to time — it’s a good thing I have to eat and um . . . because I would likely never move –, the lack in movement and the constancy of pressure on one area for such a long period of time has rendered that posture excruciating. Picture a piece of furniture and the process of distressing it, revealing that under-layer of denuded raw wood. Do this, and you will have conjured my sad little butt-bones.
Sad bones ——-> <——– Sad bones
So what do I do? Be miserable for the next two+ plus while I heal? I refuse.
I have to change, even if it’s only temporary; the things that brought me happiness must cease for a time and I must replace them with new joys. The choice is mine. Will you pray for me, please? It won’t be easy. I’m a child of emotion. Feelings make sense because they are obvious, needing no one or nothing to discern them. What I need is a logic. I need to be wiser and stronger than my immediate and temporary problem. And maybe just a little change in perspective, too. Maybe slowing down doesn’t have to be a bad thing. What conversations and sights might I see that I may never have had in my hurried state?
I needed a brace, but first I needed a pair of shoes that would accommodate a little extra width. Come on, admit it; I look pretty bad-a$$, right? Like maybe I’m a professional soccer player who took a fall making “the” most incredible shot, consequently winning the game. Or maybe . . . maybe I’m a police officer or fire-woman, and I was wounded in the line of duty! Actually, I have a funny story; another post . . .
I had to move out of my bed and over to my desk when writing. It’s not nearly as comfortable, but look at this picture I snapped. Precious baby.
Your comfort will never be more important than your character. And your character can only be tested in times of struggle and loss.
Blessings, my friends!!