Last year I made two New Year's Resolutions.
The first was to practice some physical form of yoga every single day.
The second was to run a 50k and earn my Ultra Runner title.
I was optimistic. I was signed up, committed, and in habit already. I
thought completion was inevitable. I didn't complete either.
The first 6 months of the year were pretty darn incredible. So many adventures, good friends, mountain tops, physical feats, and joy. So much joy. So much wonder, play and laughter. Light and happiness were prevalent. I fought my demons every once in a while and mostly in private. A good run or yoga practice would set me straight when the darkness came knocking. A dose of the outdoors was always just what I needed to take me out of the pit of inadequacy and expand the breathing space around me.
July 18th happened. A freak accident. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't fall or land wrong or take too big a risk. It just happened. I hate that it's my excuse for everything. I try not to rehash it over and over in blog form, but it dumped me out of my car on the roller coaster ride and left me sitting alone on my sore behind and in shock. So my goals turned from "thrive" to "survive". From conquering a 50k to learning to walk again. From playing with friends and reveling in the magic, to mustering the courage to function on my own while the world went on around me.
Five and a half months later I'm still working to "get over it." I'm realizing that this is something you don't get over. There is no over. No closure. It's something you learn to live with. Something you assimilate and adjust to. And as much as I soldier on and push toward the positive, there are always reminders. Some of them I can ignore. Some I can push through. But there are always some that pin me down and make me cry "uncle" and admit that I'm hurt. Broken. Lost. Life popped my bubble. I feel out of place in my own life and all wrong in my own body. The psychological scars are deeper than I care to admit. I'm so disappointed in myself- that I'm not a more cheerful survivor. Guilty that I'm not what my family and friends want and need me to be. Frustrated that I could so easily allow myself to fall into a victim mentality. My poor little ego is sore that everyone went on having fun without me. The world still turns. I feel so insignificant.
The process is long and unsteady. It's not my first rodeo. I've come back from major injury and trauma before. When I was young, healing was fast, change was prevalent, parents were in charge, and what was taken away from me wasn't something I had consciously earned in the first place. Ignorance is bliss.
It won't always be this way. I'll feel so much better. And worse. And then better. Eventually I'll find even keel and enjoy life more consistently. If only for a while. I wish for some gentle soul to take my hand and lead me kindly to the things, places and people that I need for healing. At very least I wish for some warm, understanding hugs.
But I'm a big girl. This one's on me. I have to be my own hero. I must trust myself enough to try and keep trying.
For this year- this inconsistent, exhausting NOW that I'm living in,
I can't bring myself to make goals or resolutions beyond survival and keeping hope.
I need to find a way to extend some love in my own direction. Some acceptance. Some confidence. Some sweetness.
I guess I could say I'd like to trust life again. To find my sense of wonder again. I'd like to feel the magic. I miss the magic.