i lied

The outside does hurt.

What the fuck was I doing? Toying with fate? "Give me a broken bone" ooooh, lookatme, I'm soooooo tough.

Actually, I'm so sick of being motherfucking injured. I want to be able to take care of myself. I want to do the normal things I do everyday.

I want to ride my bike to work.
I want to open the door for people.
I want to play soccer.
I want to write.
I want to type quickly and without pain.
I want to open the refrigerator door.

Oh, this is stupid. I want a ton of things and I can't have them and I have to just keep being fucking half-useless with this stupid hand and stupid arm and I hate it. And it hurts.

And all the other stuff hurts too and it's harder to take care of it because I can't do any of my normal things (type, ride my bike, play soccer, go for a run, write, write, write...) whinewhinewhine

I know that things could be worse; I know that things could be better too.

Why not same old?

I'm gonna have to rely on an old stand-by to start things off: "I don't know what I think until I write it down." - Joan Didion

I think it's funny that I use that quote allllllllll the time, but I'm not actually sure if I got it right or not. It was from when she was here and I went to her presentation mostly for the extra credit in my English class and she said that and I loved it. Everything else she said I actually kinda hated, but whatever because then the paper was easier to write and I got an A and who really cares about GPAs anyway? Besides my mom, who doesn't know how to care in any sense of the definition of how I use the word, or maybe some statiticians or grad schools? Oh grad school, I guess I'll have to figure that out pretty soon.

Okay. I got in a bike accident. I don't really feel like telling the story since I've had to tell just about everyone I know or who passes by me and sees the bandages. I'm not going to here. But I got in this accident, right, and I have some injuries: deep and troublesome road rash on my left elbow and left hip; standard road rash on my stomach, right hip, and each knee; some cuts/gashes/scrape things on my right hand; jammed fingers on my right hand; general soreness, aching and bruising all over. I think the worst is the jammed fingers (I am typing right now which I guess could mean I'm more aware of it at the moment) and the road rash on my left elbow. It doesn't really stop stinging. Here's the deal. I'm fine.

No. I really want you to listen to me. This is so easy. This shit, this "pain", come the fuck on. Give me a broken bone. Give me some stitches. Give me something. I mean, yeah, it hurts, it's bothersome, but I'm not lying when I say I'm fine. This is just all so odd. I've kinda been dying lately. As is for-real-painfully evident, I suck at accepting care. I'm having a hard time letting the three willing roommates do stuff like refill my water for me. Sorry. I suck at accepting care and help. It's not something I'm used to. But, "ay, there's the rub", this isn't what I need help with. (Ahhhhh, a sentence-ending preposition, shield your children.) I'm really hurting these days and kinda feel lost and don't have a fucking clue how to accept help and/or care, but now, suddenly, I hurt the outside of me and BOOM more care than I know how to handle. What's going on?

I'm not just pretending to be tough and saying "I'm fine" because it's the strong thing to do. I'm saying I'm fine because, on this subject at least, I am. I'm fine. I'm scraped and I'm injured, yes, I admit to that, but this shit heals. This shit goes away. Skin regrows, swelling goes down, bleeding stops; all I have to do is wait and then I'll be healthy again. It's so simple and easy. Not so with the inside.

Maybe I was being a little dramatic up there. Maybe I'm not dying inside, but I've been hurting so much more than I am with these injuries. I'm getting such attention and love and care and it's weird and I don't know what to do with it. Yeah, it sucks or whatever, but seriously, this is nothing to me. This is my hand hurting as I type. Yeah? And?

What about seeing my family in a week? This time next week, I'll be on my way.

Silence. Silent fear as I sit here at my desk, and a true urge to just climb underneath it. Yeah, here, in the MC. I want to climb under my desk. It would feel better down there. Why? Because I realized I have to go see my family in a week.

Road rash just doesn't compare. I don't know how to explain it. I can work through physical pain. Hello? I can play 90 minute soccer games with motherfucking broken shins. (I know I shouldn't have, but I'm capable of dealing with physical pain, I've got that shit down.) I can finish the cross country race with a stitches-needing gash on my wrist. I can do this stuff. It's easy. It's simple. It makes sense to me.

I can't deal with beth being gone. I can't be okay with having to go see my family. I can't relax at night without a girlfriend sleeping next to me. I can't trust my friends. I can't on and on and on I'm ashamed and embarrassed and living life wrong when it comes to the insides.

So what do I do with this care? With this wonderful--but in-my-head wonderfully misguided--care? Maybe it's as simple as I thought yesterday. Maybe it's that my friends, my wonderful, loving, amazing, better-than-I've-ever-had, more-than-I-might-deserve friends love and care for both the inside and the outside of me, but I can't hide the outsides injuries. I can't hide the outside pain. They can see it, they can bandage it, they can buy me ice cream and bring me refills of water. They can force it.

If I won't show them the inside, how can they help? They can't see it. They can't force it.

I don't know. I bet that's all a part of it, but it's more complicated too. Because physical pain is easier. It's bandagable. You can't put a bandage over my family. You can't put a bandage over The Ex. You can't put a bandage over the loss of beth. You can't put a bandage over my nightmares. Road rash, though, yes. So maybe I'll just focus on letting them care for the outside. Then maybe I can learn to let them help with the inside too.

Or maybe I'll leave that project for later because I have to see the family in a week and it wouldn't really be a good idea to get used to love before I go see them. Or maybe it would. I can't tell what will hurt less. That's why the physical pain's so easy.

Why is it so easy for people to believe the smiles and "I'm fine"s when they're not true, but so impossible to believe when I'm wearing bandages?

This world's a tricky place. I wrote it all down, and I still don't know what I'm thinking.

Rapid Downward Spiral

Oh god. Oh god oh god ohgod! It's the same. It's the same. It's all the same and it can't be because it's all the bad that's the same and it's all the good that's changed. bp isn't around anymore. I've been back at work for about two hours and it's all the same. ***** didn't get me his procards and ****** wouldn't stop talking even after I asked him to and in the car on the drive back last night I was regaled with stories of racism and classism and sexism and homophobia and dickhead white males with their unchecked privilege running amuck. The 10 year old who turns 11 today was called a sissy yesterday BY HIS TEACHER (oh, I'm almost crying, by his teacher) so now today all the kids, on his birthday, are gonna call him a sissy and all I can think of is the show I saw in SF this June where they acted out what it was like to be gender variant in school and not have any friends and get bullied and beat up and shit on by everyone and the main character was a boy-acting girl (who later transitioned--so really, boy-acting boy stuck in the body of a girl--and that needs to be honored but for the clarity of this shaky handed rant and to keep it historically accurate he'll be refered to as "she") and she got beat up and picked on all the time and didn't have any friends, but then she did have one and it was a girl-acting boy and he got it even worse (see aforementioned "sissy" comment) and when the show was over he had committed suicide and the main character was alone again and it was one of the few shows in my life where I just didn't even bother to wipe away the tears, until even after the applause was done because none of us boygirlboygirlboygirlwhat?s in the audience could sit down or stop clapping and the first thing I said when I turned to beth and tried to soak up too many tears with just the non-absortant skin of my fingers and hands was "remember high school?" And we laughed, in the audience, through our tears, because what else can we do, me and some of those that overheard me as we sat back down because we've all been miserable and we've all been sad and picked on and bullied and shit on because we're "different" and now I'm back to this state where I get stared at for being funny looking instead of attractive and it just can't be the same, it can't be, it can't be and I've only been back at work for two hours and already it's the same because ***** didn't get me his procards and ***** wouldn't stop talking when I needed him to and the comforts and good stuff are different and oh god oh god oh god.

Oh god. That was a rapid downward spiral.