I should be in bed...
Mar. 7th, 2006 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeInstead, I'm going to wibble in my LiveJournal for a minute. I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but haven't really been at the computer enough to do so properly. So now I'm going to put off going to bed for a few minutes and just get it over with.
Mostly I'm caught between annoyed with myself and... some other undefined emotion that I haven't figured out yet. Mostly it's the broken arm that's thrown me off-balance, literally and figuratively. It's the figurative part that's more frustrating, though.
I may not come off that way, but I very much like being independent. I like being able to do stuff for myself, and more importantly to be there for others. Being sick, or worse, being injured, brings out the worst in me. I am a terrible, terrible patient. I was brought up by parents who were of the "walk it off" mindset when it came to themselves (never when I was sick, I hasten to add).
I ignore illness. I cure myself by pretending I'm not sick, until it's entirely unavoidable. When I do finally admit defeat, my first instinct is to go crawl into the deepest, darkest hole that I can find until it's all over.
So, breaking my arm basically screwed me over. Suddenly I couldn't do stuff for myself anymore. In the beginning, I couldn't walk or dress or even take a damned bath without pain. And so, characteristically, I got annoyed with myself. I was, and in many ways still am, a walking ball of frustration. The broken record in my head told me that I was, in reality, just making this all up. It couldn't possibly be as bad as I was making out. It didn't matter that I could only walk a few yards at a time before having to stop and wait for my arm to stop seizing up: I was a hypochondriac, I was malingering, I would be fine if I just stopped making a fuss about this.
It's getting worse as my arm gets better. I still can't do anything that involves putting pressure on the arm. Lifting anything heavier than my coat is off-limits (even the coat is kinda iffy), but the broken record is still playing. It doesn't hurt all the time anymore, therefore you must be fine. Quit whining and just get on with it. The fact that it's been a little over two weeks doesn't seem to be a deterrent, either. It just makes me more impatient, as though somehow two weeks was the magical limit, after which the broken arm should have spontaneously healed so that one could never tell that it was injured to begin with.
There's no actual point to this post. My rational brain is losing the argument with my irrational side, is the long and the short of it. I'm frustrated with myself, and I feel as though I'm letting everyone down because I can't do everything I was doing before.
Patently untrue, but the feeling remains.
Mostly I'm caught between annoyed with myself and... some other undefined emotion that I haven't figured out yet. Mostly it's the broken arm that's thrown me off-balance, literally and figuratively. It's the figurative part that's more frustrating, though.
I may not come off that way, but I very much like being independent. I like being able to do stuff for myself, and more importantly to be there for others. Being sick, or worse, being injured, brings out the worst in me. I am a terrible, terrible patient. I was brought up by parents who were of the "walk it off" mindset when it came to themselves (never when I was sick, I hasten to add).
I ignore illness. I cure myself by pretending I'm not sick, until it's entirely unavoidable. When I do finally admit defeat, my first instinct is to go crawl into the deepest, darkest hole that I can find until it's all over.
So, breaking my arm basically screwed me over. Suddenly I couldn't do stuff for myself anymore. In the beginning, I couldn't walk or dress or even take a damned bath without pain. And so, characteristically, I got annoyed with myself. I was, and in many ways still am, a walking ball of frustration. The broken record in my head told me that I was, in reality, just making this all up. It couldn't possibly be as bad as I was making out. It didn't matter that I could only walk a few yards at a time before having to stop and wait for my arm to stop seizing up: I was a hypochondriac, I was malingering, I would be fine if I just stopped making a fuss about this.
It's getting worse as my arm gets better. I still can't do anything that involves putting pressure on the arm. Lifting anything heavier than my coat is off-limits (even the coat is kinda iffy), but the broken record is still playing. It doesn't hurt all the time anymore, therefore you must be fine. Quit whining and just get on with it. The fact that it's been a little over two weeks doesn't seem to be a deterrent, either. It just makes me more impatient, as though somehow two weeks was the magical limit, after which the broken arm should have spontaneously healed so that one could never tell that it was injured to begin with.
There's no actual point to this post. My rational brain is losing the argument with my irrational side, is the long and the short of it. I'm frustrated with myself, and I feel as though I'm letting everyone down because I can't do everything I was doing before.
Patently untrue, but the feeling remains.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Nobody likes to feel helpless.
Date: 2006-03-08 06:34 am (UTC)I can so relate...
Date: 2006-03-08 12:17 pm (UTC)And yes, we should get together soon. How are your weekends looking over the next little while?
Re: I can so relate...
Date: 2006-03-09 04:12 am (UTC)Re: I can so relate...
Date: 2006-03-09 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 01:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-08 01:21 pm (UTC)I, also, am of the "DON'T touch me, I can do it" school of coping.
I once fell in a school parking lot and my knee dislocated. As I tried to get up, I slipped again and the OTHER knee went out. A very nice man and his son tried to pick me up and instead of being grateful for the help I snarled and took a swipe at them to get them away.