limitations and lack of purpose

My surgery was exactly one week ago. And it's been just shy of a month since the fall. I'll admit it. I've been cranky, bitchy, snarky and annoying since this all happened. It isn't because of the pain. Yes, the pain sucked, but I can deal with it. The reason behind all of my frustrations is so much bigger than pain.

I have limits. Big, huge, glaring and annoying limits that have impacted my life.

I'm not going to pretend that this is some life changing event and that I understand what it means to be truly injured. This is just a knee injury and it will heal. But aside from breaking my arm when I was a kid, this is the first time I've been limited in what I can and cannot do. For someone who doesn't like asking for help ever, this is a challenge that I'm not handling very well.

When I want a glass of water I have to pull myself up, crutch over to the sink and balance on one crutch while getting a glass down and then shuffle back to the sofa and attempt not to spill anything. Making food is so time consuming and difficult that I bought a box of pop tarts because I can totally manage to open those. I'm eating them cold though. The toaster is far. And while I am dying to go outside and visit with friends and enjoy summer, the exhaustion I feel from going to therapy is so overwhelming that all I can do is relax.

My days consist of sitting on my sofa, browsing the internet, reading, watching bad television and talking to my cat. Four months ago my life revolved around work and I had to make time for all those other things. I've spent the last ten plus years working. I've always been busy. I've always been that person who was hard to see because I had too much going on.

The change in my employment status coupled with the change in my physical ability has been jarring. There are moments of happiness and love, but it's very hard to see them when I feel so sullen and downtrodden. The world seems to be going out of its way to find new and inventive ways of kicking me down just a little further. I'm still determined to tell the universe to fuck off and that I'll get past all of this, but until I manage to get to the other side I'm going to be cranky, bitchy, snarky and annoying.

being home again

Ever since my surgery on Tuesday I have been staying with my parents. I moved out of their house when I left for college and only came back for a few months when I was 19, so I've pretty much been gone for the last decade or so. In fact, this is the most time I've spent with them since I move into my first apartment way back in 2002. The circumstances of being back home weren't great. I'm having a lot of trouble getting around and it's 100 degrees outside. But despite the reasons behind me being here, I can honestly say it feels so good to be home again.

My dad is the single most amazing man I've ever met in my life. For all of the teasing (and tormenting, kidding, nagging, belittling and bothering) he's been doing he has also been taking the best care of me. Every single day I've been here has come with the most delicious meals. Seriously. Spaghetti, fresh eggs and bacon and bread, grilled chicken, more eggs, more fresh bread, meatloaf and then today? Eggs, toast, bacon, grilled chicken, corn and salad, homemade pizza. Seriously. It's okay to be jealous because he's been fantastic.

And my mom. Oh, my mother. To say we butt heads a lot is such an understatement. We are so similar and so different that being under the same roof was a trying time for us both. I didn't expect things to go so well with my return, but she's been wonderful. I tease my mom that she's lacking a maternal instinct, but she's found it. My mother is sixty years old and she helped me bathe and dress. Her love (after all of these years) warms my little black heart.

I'm excited about going home. I miss my crappy little house and god do I miss seeing my husband. But knowing that I could come back home and depend on my parents for awhile is such a good feeling. I'm a damn lucky kid. Even at twenty-eight years old.

therapy is dumb

Yes, the trend of me blogging while hopped up on pills continues. I'm okay with that.

Today was my first day of physical therapy. Physical therapy is a place they send you so people who are overly perky and happy can tell you what a good job you are doing and then encourage you to be stronger! better! happier!

I think it's safe to say I will not be enjoying this.

The only reason I'm going to blast through this crap is because I don't want to go to the doctor three days a week. I have things to do, people. Okay, so I'm unemployed and alone all the time, but I'd still rather sit at home and read my book than go to freaking physical therapy. There are way too many people there all up in my business and that's not something I handle well.

Because, really, could these people be any happier? It's disgusting. They were happy about the rain and the fact that I could lift my leg a few inches off of the table. These are not my people. My people would tell me that if I get my leg off the table they'd bring me a cupcake. (I'm not ready to discuss the diet I need to go on just yet. I'm still upset by it.)

I tried therapy once. Of the mental sort. I lasted two sessions because the jackass kept wanting me to talk about my feelings. I'm not okay with that. Just like I'm not okay with physical therapy. I'm Swedish and Lutheran, all right? We don't discuss problems. We just go along, do our shit and politely decline any offers from friends or family for help.

Bottom line: Therapy is dumb, but I'm going to do it so I don't have to do it any longer. Yup.

Also? I really, really want a cupcake.