In at the Deep End

When you’re telling a story full of pain and the dull, monotonous wrongness of life, where should you start? At the beginning? Trace the route from then to now? Or from the most recent, wending the way back as far as seems relevant? I suppose it depends on what you are trying to achieve: the therapeutic, prolonged dance through your histories, a bald accounting of the ‘facts’, or something else. This is something else. This is me, which means it’ll be a bit of all of the above and none of them. And don’t forget the important distinction between truth and facts. Never forget that.

 About 10 weeks ago, I broke my feet. Well strictly speaking I broke my right foot and sprained that ankle, and I had a bimalleolar fracture and dislocation of my left ankle. I stepped out of my back door and ended up on the floor with a z-shaped ankle. I can’t explain what happened, other than the contributing factor of a small amount of alcohol. Anyway, the end result was that I had a couple of surgeries on my left ankle, a fair amount of metal in my leg, and casts on my left leg and my right foot, like so:

It’s been just over a month since I got my feet back, and I cannot express how grateful I am to live in a country with such an amazing healthcare system. The surgeon who fixed my ankle was a genius, with fantastic needlework skills to go with the DIY skills required to screw the bones together again. And the nurses and healthcare assistants who started me off on the recovery process were marvellous. There are many complaints about the NHS, but on this occasion you won’t read any.

So, four weeks on, I’m back to walking, cycling, and later today perhaps also yoga. Every day it gets a little easier and I find my way back to my life. But this is where I come unstuck, because I’m not sure that I want to find my way back and equally I’m not sure what the way forward would be. Six months ago, my relationship of 10 years ended. I had to rehome my beloved dog, because I am an unemployed, broke student, watching her scant financial reserves dwindle every day. And as I surface from this relationship, I find that my life is as sparse as my money. There’s more, of course there’s always more, but that’s enough misery for you to get the point.

 What might not be so clear from the above is that I am an optimist, despite it all. When life is in tatters, what choice is there but to hope and to work to make it different, better? At least, that is the only choice that fits in my skin. So I write. Because I’m ready to speak and be heard. Because words are breath, and life and meaning. Because I’m privileged to be able to. Because somehow I have to build something new and mine.

 I don’t expect anyone to read this, but if you are, welcome.