I was dropped off at the hospital by 830am. All three doctors did me a solid by seeing me earlier than scheduled so I could get out of there by 1130 instead of much later.
Sacrum-wise, the fuckery of last night did not erase the work put in on the PT- I’d gone from 5″ off to 3 to 1 and a half today- but last night did lead to the osteopath discovering golf ball knots standing out and dancing across my shoulders. My first experience with those fuckers.I’d pinched something trying to do all that was left behind and kept moving due to the cloud of naproxen taken (for the first time in days) before work when my back had gotten a bit achy…but when the naprox cut out- fn early, fn Again-the pain swarmed up my back, across my shoulders and shot fire down the backs of my biceps with 90 minutes to go at work. I crumpled.
A guest came up on the periphery and sung out “Aha! I finally catch you sleeping on the job!lol” & thankfully/oddly it was a regular, one also dealing with a back injury. He’d already told me I’d needed to lay on the ground and relax everything because that’s been working for him but I couldn’t listen. By the time I’d cried myself to sleep I really wished I would’ve.
The OE made the knots go away and asked what else was going on and I burst into tears.
Because due to the physical stress of all this compounded by the emotional stress of feeling honestly unsupported- the shit left that I’d tackled should not have been left but I clicked into autopilot to do it, and everyone is complaining behind the back & lying to the face of the person I’ve burnt myself out trying to support beyond my job description 6 fucking months, only to feel guilty that I can’t and carrying the toxicity of everyone else’s passive back biting weirdness & being cast as a villain for asking motherfuckers to fn truly talk to each other, and having no one I can actually talk to because real talk ain’t acceptable out here-
The growth in my gut I’d nursed away was the size of a grapefruit embedded in my gut by this morning when he saw me.
So that’s four days off, fighting all this emotionally cancerous energy around the buildings Coming for me for TAKING one sick day & my normal days off instead of covering two extra shifts(since I usually do’ em)-a sick day that I’m legally supposed to be taking to not make the injury worse …only to see all my healing work done in the last few months vanish in my gut.
They won’t tell the truth to people they call friends to ease their own loads of toxicity, how the fuck are they going to get me asking them to clean the toxic shit up for me?
They’re fine with the fn puss.
I’m not. I’m allergic to shit they’re willing to sit and gripe in.
So I broke down in the exam room, realizing I can’t do what is being asked of me in this.
And I’m so angry! I’ve worked literal magic in my body. Literal! The thing was almost gone! Even with the stress of the injury it stayed chill. But this morning it just blew up to such an extent that it alarmed the doctor &I fucking freaked out. What is the point of healing myself if I stay in an emotionally sick place? What is the point of doing all this fucking holistic work if the ground I’m sitting on is so lead-riddled that any fruit of my garden can’t even be eaten if it grows here?
Am I going to become a drunkard to cope with being surrounded by those drinking to not address shit? Because they’re ok doing that.
And it was that realization that cleared my chest.
They don’t mind the sick. They revel in the bad …the infected pus of it in this way that I don’t get & just can’t do.
And that is what that growth has always been- A bizarre environmental litmus test. A ticking time bomb in my belly. Maybe gypsying helped it not register as such all the way.
They don’t give a Fuck about me. But in a really sad way there’s grace in that…because what’s been emotionally ripping me apart here has been seeing them unable to give enough of a Fuck about themselves to speak their truth down easy paths that can change shit, trying to help that happen because everyone’s meandering around in various states of spiritual asphyxiation, hissing “I’m fine” whenever they get the chance to fix it.
Maybe it’s liking the “high” of the Low, maybe it’s being so used to sucking it up that there’s comfort continuing the charade that outsteps the potential fresh air of pushing past that and facing the uncharted in the other side of it.
They’re fine with the sick, have accepted it as “just human” & acclimated to it environmentally. &I’ve been trying. To do that. The whole time I’ve been up here. Because they aren’t bad people. And I’ve kept going “Stay the course, treat it as exercise, build the muscle-I’ll probably need it relationally back down in L.A.”
But this…it’s just become very real to me that this is not a muscle I want to build in me. This is not a toughness I desire in my life.I’m not that girl. That life is not worth living when you actually CAN fix shit…it’s just not. &staying holed up is a panacea.
I didn’t vent, I positively imploded, freaking the doctor out a bit at first.
And literally, on the other side of that…in the fucking examination room…the growth went back down some.Like speaking on all of it diffused it.
I got picked up &dropped off back at that whole foods while shaman ran errands but got skeeved by the place and went wandering, processing EVERYTHING.
I ended up in a Mediterranean grocery store, pulled to a big bottle of rosewater, like god was doing the equivalent of sticking my thumb in my mouth to weave those two arteries behind your front teeth that ease communications between both hemispheres of your brain for better problem solving & recall of the gauntlet this is and where I am from, but with roses lol.
I went up to the counter to pay & they had a manned flying disc emblem on it. Nother forehead kiss.
“Zoroaster, right?” I asked as my fingers danced across the gilt.
“Yes! How did you know that?” The old man asked.I mumbled something about Sumer and other oldtimey affiliations and the rose coated candies caught my eyes.
Soothed them- because that was the other thing-my eyes had started fn around too! Telling you, I was Not amused.
“Turkish delight! Want one?”I nodded. Hadn’t eaten all day. Guardian angels call it my passive hunger strike mode.
I can say I’m in a better mood after eating them once I got home. I was surprised how good they were.
But the root of the better was that while walking around after the rosewater, rubbing my stomach grateful for the re-receding, promising to do better, to fix this, I made some very real moves…out of faith. To do just that.