I’ve spent so much time pretending to be happy with the body that I’m in. I think my back injury is the first time I have ever admitted in real time that I think something is wrong with my body while I am actively trying to change it. I have no problem talking about my efforts after the fact, once the 160 pounds have been lost, the certifications achieved, the coaching practices opened, and the expert levels thoroughly dominated. No problem at all then.
But in the meantime, when things are iffy, when experiments are running and I don’t even have a clear hypothesis, when I don’t even like my own hashtag*, I do not like to put myself out there. Historically, I do not like to talk about weight, unless we’re talking about total weight lost or how much weight I’m lifting. Those numbers are finished, indisputable, on the books. They fall in the extremities, on the unusual ends of the spectrum. We’ve discussed how I feel about that.
For whatever reason, perhaps sheer exhaustion, perhaps post-surgical narcotics induced, uncharacteristic vulnerability, I opened the door to talking about my body as it was broken, the problem of my back before it was solved. That step led to sharing about my unruly brain, even as it fumed in it’s manic fit.
As hermit, writing here is a much needed connection to like minded (ha!) people and those who love them. But even so, it is a frightening thing to share a story that has no clear ending, one in which I may end up looking like a fool.
That was quite the prologue to tell you that I saw my surgeon yesterday. He was brusk, cold and quick. He pretended to be nice to my children who really should not have been with me for this conversation, so I should give him more credit. I did not even pretend to be nice to my children.
“We’ve done all we can. The next step is more surgery. I go in with screws and an implant, remove all the remaining material and scar tissue and fuse your spine. If you do not do surgery now, your only choice is to manage the pain until you just can’t stand it anymore.”
Well that sounds familiar, doesn’t it, bipolar friends?
Doesn’t that sound like something in which I have some expertise?
So I said no to screws. I said no to surgery. I said yes to the experiment and doing the plans. I said yes to #powerrehab and however involved it may need to become in order to manage the pain.
That means more roses and less sugar. It means ketosis and myofascial release (*tears*). It means staying in the green and telling you about it, regardless of how I feel about that.
*Why? Why did you let me commit to a hashtag, friends! Now I’m in too deep! I can’t turn back now!