Tired, Tried. Same Letters, Different Meaning

I knew we were in trouble the first time I felt the fight drain out of me. Normally, I would say that’s a good thing. It’s dangerous to start fights that don’t matter, or that lead to nowhere. But it’s also dangerous to start a fight you can’t finish. So for me, it’s a bad sign. I can only recall a select few times I felt completely spent of an argument, and it never really ended well. Because you see, I’m a fighter. It’s what I do. I was born and bred to be tough and to hold my own. So when I’m tired of it, it usually means I don’t care anymore. And that’s not something I’d care to admit to anyone. But I’m trying, and I guess that’s what matters for now.

Daniel

Daniel, almost certainly inadvertently, taught me to be a better person. I’m fairly positive it’s inadvertent because the way he’s taught me. It’s not him teaching me, so to speak. But it’s the feelings I hold for him. When he comes to me with a problem, when we get in a fight, and even when we’re just talking, I think before I speak to him. Which is a hell of a lot farther than I was just 7 or 8 months ago before I met him. I was such a little fire spitter. I still am, too… just less so. I used to proclaim my opinions before I thought about how it would affect those around me. But with Daniel, I don’t want to say anything that might hurt him. I don’t want to say anything that might make him leave. Don’t get me wrong, I in no way skirt around important issues, but I’m more careful about voicing my harsh opinions now, and I sometimes even rethink the roots of those opinions in the first place.

Daniel helps me to see things in a different light. When he comes to me with a problem or a complaint, sometimes my initial reaction is to tell him my point of view, or something that I’ve experienced that may relate to what he’s going through. Although this can be helpful at times, I’ve come to realize that he is not ME. Sometimes how I would handle a situation or what I would do and say is not the best option for HIM. So now when we talk, I try to view the problem 360 degrees before giving him my best answer.

Daniel has also helped me grow up. I’ll give you an example. I sent him a sweet text when I woke up, and hours later, while waiting outside my next class, I received a snapchat from him. I was online and found Facebook updates and other indications that he had been on his phone, read my text message, and ignored it. SO, instead of tweeting the ambiguous tweet I hastily typed out, or silently fuming for the rest of the day, building up anger until I next saw my poor unsuspecting boyfriend, I confronted him about it. Like any sane adult would. And he apologized. Again, like any sane adult would. And just like that, it was over. We avoided an entire would-have-been fight, which I can see now unraveling in my head, and not ending well.

Daniel reinforces lessons I’ve already been taught before. I think the biggest one I struggle with is that my pain and my past pains do not lessen the pain of others. If Daniel comes to me with a sprained wrist, a pulled quad, hell even a hangnail, I try to be as sympathetic as possible. Which is a huge deal for me, mind you. I try to remember that yes, even though I have been in an inordinate amount of pain in my life, that in no way affects the pain that my loved one is experiencing right now. Today.  Because when I come to Daniel complaining of pain, you bet your ass he’s right there comforting me, doing anything he can to help.

Daniel has even helped me appreciate what I have more than ever. Both through his inaction as well as his actions. Although I try to think about and be thankful for what I’ve got every day, sometimes I forget just how lucky I really am. And Daniel reminds me of that. He reminds me how lucky I am to have such a great and supportive family and an amazing upbringing, sometimes outright and sometimes by observing his interactions with his own family. But he also influences me through his lack of appreciation for the things he has. Which is just as important, because I hope that he can learn from my blindness sometimes, too. All in all, I’m just really lucky to have Daniel in my life, and I’m working on reminding him- every single day.

I'm only 20 years old. So why is it that I feel like I have the body of a 50 year old?

Just Relax (written 5/22, published 7/27)

It took me a long time to figure out what it means to truly relax. Growing up as a kid, I was involved in so many activities that it was rare that I had any idle time. During the school year I was involved in various academic clubs, I was in after-school, played soccer, basketball, ran cross country, took piano and guitar lessons, and did karate. During the summers I had soccer camps, day camps, tennis lessons, golf lessons, swim team, etc. I was always running from one thing to the next.

I remember when I was 12, I played for Charlotte Soccer Club, and they used to penalize us players for showing up late to practice. It never made sense to me, because we were only 12. We couldn't drive, we had no control over what time we got to practice. Yet, we still had to run sprints or do push-ups or undergo some form of humiliation when we were late to practice. So I was always waiting at the car when it was time to go, soccer bag packed, water bottle full, ready to go. I guess what I'm trying to say is I was always ready to go, always planning ahead, always ready for the next place to be. And I carried that with me into adulthood.

Relaxing isn't just physically relaxing your muscles. You can lay down in bed and still not be relaxing. You can release the tension in your legs and arms, and still be clenching your jaw. It's a science, really. And even you make the conscious effort to relax every muscle in your body...you can still forget one. Your brain. If your mind is racing, thinking about all of the errands you have to run tomorrow or the material on the exam in the morning or what exactly to pack in your soccer bag or whatever, you're not relaxing.

My biggest problem is making lists. I am ALWAYS making lists. Of what to buy, of what to do, of what order to do them in. I make them in my head, and then I write them down, and then I add to them in my head, and then I write those down. Even the most simple things. I've had lists saved in my phone that say: wake up. Use the bathroom. (Really, I've actually written that down. No joke) Let the dog out. Leave for class. It just comforts me to have something written down in order I guess. But sometimes making a list lets me get to a state of relaxation, so I do it anyway.

Some people also mistake relaxing for watching TV or a movie, and maybe that is relaxing for some people, but not for me. I think that's the reason I've always hated movies. They make my mind race. I want to write things down, to jot down little notes about a character or symbolism. I want to point out how unrealistic it is that no one realized the protagonist was still alive and in hiding, or how a hint in the beginning of the movie gave away the entire ending. I want to not care. I want to sit back and enjoy the movie. But I never can, so I stopped watching.

As weird as it sounds, I've found a way to be thankful for my recent ankle surgery, because it has forced me to slow down. It's given me the time I need to evaluate many different aspects of my life. I guess being physically unable to rush to soccer practice, to plan a workout, or to even drive or prepare my own meals has left me with nothing else to do but relax. I've caught up on my sleep, I've started a few books and I've even laid in bed and let my mind wander. It's been revitalizing. And so yes, I am thankful for this ankle surgery, because if you can't find at least one good thing from every bad situation, you're doing it wrong

Doctors doctors doctors

I've been thinking a lot lately about something my doctor told me a few months back. After intense testing, we discovered that after my 4 (?) concussions, the damage my brain sustained had essentially taken away my ability to focus, which is the root of my short-term memory problems. My overall short term memory scores absolutely tanked, most of which falling between the 6th and 8th percentiles...ouch.

One of the things my doctor said he could do was prescribe me ritalin, to which of course I immediately and stubbornly declined. I told him I didn't like taking medication, he told me he wasn't to keen on it either, and I left. Haven't seen him since.  But maybe I should just get out of my own way for once, and quit letting my stubborn-ness rule my life. I mean I'm definitely against medicating unless it's absolutely necessary, but I want to get into med school for pete's sake. And I need to start cracking down with my school work. Correction- I should have cracked down long ago, but better late than never eh? So why was I so quick to decline something that could help me in the long run? I mean, think about it. Problems focusing could definitely inhibit my ability to succeed in the classroom. Memory problems could inhibit my test-taking abilities and studying effectiveness.

Basically what I'm saying is, I'm not in any position to be declining possible help in the academics department. But is it really worth me trashing my morals and everything I stand for? It just seems a tad hypocritical. I've always spoke out against doctors who over-medicate their patients, and prescribe adderall and ritalin to any kid who walks into their office complaining of "focus problems" looking to score meds for the next big exam. But I guess the tests don't lie...and if you really do need it, you should take it.

I think another big thing is that I would be going back on my word with my doctor. I told him I didn't want it...and now months later I'm calling him up asking for a prescription? It just seems a bit sketchy, and I even know the back story. It's a pride thing, too. I told him I didn't need it, that I could cope. And I have slowly but surely been finding coping techniques to combat my forgetfulness. But there comes a point when coping is all you're doing. And it's so time consuming that it's almost not worth it anymore.

I don't know...I guess I won't know until I try, huh?

I'll keep you posted!

Following the Rules

I never thought it would be this hard to follow the rules. I know the rules; they've been drilled into my head for a some time now. I also know the consequences. And still somehow, with every beat of my heart, I find myself deviating from "the rules". I have to fight myself at every turn. But why? Why is it that my heart is telling me one thing and my head is telling me another? I have no clue.

These rules I'm talking about, they're the rules of recovery. The rules doctors, physical therapists, parents, and even friends have placed on me. The rules I looked my surgeon in the eye and promised him I would follow if he did this second surgery. It's something about myself I don't understand. I've always had this strange clash with authority. Even when I know that what they tell me is the right thing to do, I do the opposite simply because I was instructed, I was ordered, to do it. It's a side of me I really must learn to control.

What do I have to gain? By breaking the rules, I mean. I am no longer working under the harsh restraints I was last year. I have no coach breathing down my neck, threatening dismissal from the team if I'm not back in practice on so and so day and fit enough to run a silly fitness test. I have no teammates counting on me. I have no pressure whatsoever to break the rules. So why do I still want to? I've been fighting all of my silly rebel urges since the minute I woke up in the hospital on Thursday afternoon. What would happen if I unwrapped these bandages? I can take out my own stitches, right? How hard could it be? What if I showed up to my next doctors appointment without this big wrap on my ankle? Do casts melt? Man would I love to see the look on that doctors face.

And what do I have to lose? Everything, really. It makes no sense because I get so frustrated when I can't perform like I should on the field. When a stroll on the beach inflames my ankle for a week. When I step on an uneven sidewalk and my face contorts with pain. So WHY in God's name would I want to go down that road again? Because if I mess that up, that's exactly where I'm headed. If I don't listen to the people around me, the people who care about me and my future, there will have been no point in getting the surgery at all. I'll be permanently damaged. And I'll regret it. So why am I still popping tricks on my crutches, considering ripping the bandage that must weigh ten pounds off my ankle, hopping around the house instead of asking for help?

This leads me to the final question: what the hell is wrong with me? Why do I always have to prove that I'm the toughest? And the most hard-headed, if we're being honest. I guess I've been breaking the rules since my first injury at age 13, and it's become a habit. But it's a habit that should be easily broken with maturity, and while I consider myself to be mature, I still fall into the same routines I did as a kid. So what do I have to do to stop it?