It was all going so well.
Panic disorder was all but gone, and there was no way I was going to get complacent about it. I had a regular routine for my week – two days of garden volunteering, three or four days of adventures and meeting friends, and one day of rest. I finally made it back to see my comrades in West London, and all seemed to be improving in a decidedly linear and inevitable fashion!
Then I kicked a wall three times.
It might sound stupid, viewed out of context, but when you consider that I had insomnia for many nights, and that it was 2am, and that the man next door was singing the same, appalling melody over and over again (interspersed with the occasional wail-like shout and return), I think it was almost justified. If only I had sandals on and hadn’t bruised my heel!
But I didn’t have sandals on, and it looks like I did. So now I can’t walk properly and go around on crutches. Missing work at the garden makes me feel utterly incompetent and useless. Not being able to socialize is making me fear the envelopment of darkness again. Already I have less interest in doing the things I love.
But this is, as they say, the real world bruv.
Anxiety latched onto my heel very quickly. For the first few days after the wall-kick it was fine. After that it started to ache. On that night I slept about an hour and a half. It was my first time with cold sweats (horrible) and a real deep sense of anxiety and danger. What if it’s broken? What if I am trapped here? What if I get the same abject emotions as before and fall back into a void? What if an opportunity comes up and I have to miss it? Will I have to miss volunteering tomorrow? Cyclically these thoughts and similar dooms went round and round. I tried to challenge the significance of them or question them, but this would only make them go away so long.
Naturally the catastrophizing wasn’t an accurate prediction. The next day at A&E went pretty smoothly. I was also greatly helped by family, who I was at first afraid to expose my vulnerability to. The anxiety still fixated on the injury, even after confirmed it was nothing serious, because it could become so. My leg muscles, for instance, feel sore from trying to compensate for heel pain. This kind of thing can make you lame in the long run, which does not bare thinking about. But the anxiety also forced me to work out how to deal with the situation. To accept that I have to rest. To elevate the leg. To change my posture. To ice it twice a day. To get decent insoles and medical tape to protect the heel. Even though anxiety has made me feel like utter shite on a daily basis, it has also driven me to sort this crisis out and stop it from becoming worse.
So its back to catastrophe! It shows how frail a thing ‘progress’ is I suppose. I thought I was doing well, but maybe I was just putting on a band aid. Things have to change for me to be healthy – not just things like posture and medical related, but on a much more fundamental and difficult level. I couldn’t keep going as I was before, and I was in a way imitate that before the heel struck the wall in rage.
Lets see what comes out of this. I should focus on the positives: it has brought me much closer to Professor Tolkien (I have had the Silmarillion lying around for months) and inspired me to finally start my own mythic stories. It has taught me about the foot, and how important one little part on the lowest bit of the human being really is. I will never take having an unhurt skull for granted again. Now I can add mobility to that list of gratitudes.
Hopefully I end up looking after myself better. I always had a sense that I wouldn’t live much past 40, and that my latter years would be terrible, painful, warped and bent! Acknowledging such anxiety, I have to make sure it isn’t so.