The Age of Enthusiastic Restraint

Yes it's true, People! Praise Jeebus! I am HEALED!

My buddy.

Well, not totally, but I'm feeling a hell of a lot better than I did the first three weeks post-surgery. It's interesting when you look at how much the mind and body are connected and that my piss poor mood wasn't so much due to readjusting to Creede life (though I'm sure that was at least a small part of it) but was directly related to the surgery. I realize that this may seem obvious but when you're trying to live in the moment during recovery, the struggle to stay positive about life (And I did! I really, really did TRY) is often eclipsed by woe-is-me-aren't-I-pitiful-life-is-hard b.s.

A lot of this shift into magical thinking has to do with Ron, my physical therapist. Simply put, he is fucking awesome. He clearly knows his shit and makes you feel good about your progress while pushing you to do more than you think you can do. This type of quality individual is hard to find in the Valley. To the under-informed, the Valley is the flat part of this area southeast of Creede and includes the small towns of Del Norte, Monte Vista and Alamosa. All of which are kind of depressed and shitty. And I say this because there is a nasty, down-trodden, angry-at-life energy that permeates these places. You can see the mountains, but you're not IN the mountains. It's like you paid for the deluxe $10 treatment at the automatic carwash but found out you had to do it all yourself. On my very first trip to Creede--not knowing exactly how long it took to get there and before the age of GPS or Google Maps--when I came through Alamosa I thought I'd been duped. This couldn't be Creede?!!! It's...horrible and ugly. Thankfully it wasn't Creede and I still had over an hour to go to get there. But the point being, the Valley doesn't exactly attract the attention of super talented folks because it's hard to get people to enthusiastically live there. So, when I knew that I'd have to get physical therapy outside of Denver, I was a little worried. But I'd heard great things about Ron from several people whose advice I trusted and sought him out.

This past Wednesday, Ron said I'd made the greatest strides he'd seen since I'd started coming in four weeks ago. In addition to totally losing the crutches, I was getting stronger and more confident. Both of which are extremely important in the healing process. I'd felt this change mentally too. My mood in general had started to lift. I was feeling less and less like a useless pile of poo and started (gasp!) looking forward to things again--like travel and auditions. RJ even started annoying me less. Poor guy. He's a peach.

I knew when this whole thing started that it would be hard and if you've read earlier posts, I'm sure you're well aware of this notion of mine. The physical hardship being the most obvious. And that it would be extra hard for someone with my particularly spastic personality to stand still for longer than five minutes. I was even slightly prepared for the depression. But what I wasn't prepared for was the anger. I have spent the last 3 1/2 weeks feeling pretty damn pissed off. Pissed at my body and its weaknesses, pissed at my husband even though he was trying to do what was best for me, and pissed at my shitty life for being slow and boring and shitty. I fancy myself to be a mostly upbeat person who has occasional bouts with melancholy. But this was a shitty mental space to be in for so long. Long for me anyway. I really do pity people who live in this space constantly and without hope of recovery because it SUCKS looking at the world like that--with so much anger and frustration. You begin to feel...hopeless. Like everything in your life is wrong.

This is not to say everything about life at present is hunky dory. I still don't know when or where my next theatre job will be and money is really tight. The Mann house still sits empty and gutted, waiting for some love. Plus, winters in Creede can be maddening, so I look forward to a job that takes me away for at least part of it. But the days of despair are becoming more rare and I feel much like my old self again.

 

Ow, my hip!

So, as I prepare next week to do some much needed travel--to Denver for some post-op, then Chicago to see family and friends, then North Carolina to stand up in my best girlfriend's wedding...

Photo by Susannah McLeod. (And Rebecca and I really do love each other, I swear.)

I must remember enthusiastic restraint. I'm on my way to my former glory, but I'm not there yet. Running is most likely several (if not more) months away and there is still some weakness, stiffness, aches and pains. But my faith in the ability of the human body to rebound has been restored--that it is a thing to wonder at and be amazed by. But also, that whatever you feed, grows. And I had been feeding my soul with a heap of angry crap and self-pity. So, I'll keep feeding it with good things that are nurturing and positive. And...much gratitude to friends and family who have gone overboard to make me feel better mentally and physically. You know who you are. And...oh jesus, who am I? A fucking new-age hippie?! I must stop before I make myself puke from all this love and light. (Keepin' it real, keepin' it real.)

Caption included.

Till next time, all five readers.