Flat-Out Friday: Don’t Ever Stop Writing That F**king Blog

So yeah, the last month or so has been harder than normal. And yeah, I’ve been sporadic about posting on the blog. But I was told by someone dear to me, “seriously, don’t ever stop writing that f**king blog”, so I’m hacking away at today’s post with the determination of a termite in a wooden house. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, etc.

I’ve been seeing my new psychologist for a few weeks now, and she’s good. Really good. But it seems like every time I see her I spend the whole hour crying uncontrollably, and then I’ve effectively drained myself of any energy I had to begin with, walking around like a puffy-eyed zombie for the remainder of the day. Which would be okay if the appointments weren’t on Fridays, which really puts a dent in your summer evening plans. I am hoping today’s appointment will be less so, but I doubt it. We are going to try to see a concert tonight at K-Days, so I hope to be less… bleary.

What we’ve been going over (and through) is my grief surrounding the accident itself. I did mention before that I hadn’t really grieved for what I lost, and it’s true: I lost that innocence and spontaneity that comes with being young, head over heels in love, and having very few limitations. I was 30, newly moved to Alberta, working two great jobs. My then-boyfriend was thrilled to have someone to experience life with. We had plans to visit the US, weekend in Calgary, tour vineyards and historical sites; we were living every day to its fullest.

And then everything changed.

I am far from innocent now. As for being spontaneous, we can’t do anything without thinking four steps ahead. We bought K-Days passes for the entire duration of the Expo. We wanted to see concerts and play games on a whim, but quickly realized that I can’t stand in a field to watch three hours of music and had to find lawn chairs for sale. Suddenly it’s not that pick-up-and-go experience that a young couple with no children should have. We have to plan to pack the chairs, take a bag with supplies in case I need painkillers or extra sun protection (the pills I’m on make me super sun sensitive), and plan to go a different day to walk around and play games because I can’t sit for hours and then walk around for a few more.

It’s like being a parent, except most new parents get nine months to plan and organize their lives to adjust to the new addition. My life changed in the span of sixty seconds on a sunny Friday morning. I then got two months to re-learn how to tolerate the pain, sit, stand, walk, climb stairs, use the bathroom, wash myself. I was sent home with some mobility aids and a “good luck”. I had no time to adjust to my new limitations before I realized I was saddled with them forever.


That’s what I’m grieving about. Now you can understand why it’s taken two years for me to realize this. I certainly wouldn’t want to confront it if I didn’t have to. And now you can understand why these last weeks have been hard. I’m in mourning and yet still trying to celebrate the life I’m here to live. It’s a struggle on a good day. On a bad one, it’s hard to wake up. But I do because I must.

And I must because there is so much life waiting for me to live it. I just have to remember to pack a bag to take along for the ride.



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