It’s been 10 months since I last made a post. Why? Honestly, there hasn’t been much new going on with my condition. It is still painful, that’s why it is called chronic and I also feel no one wants to hear a complainer. As I write this, I pause for a moment and wiggle my right ankle and, yup, it still feels like I just rolled my ankle. Super tight, a slight burning feeling as if someone is rubbing my leg with fine sandpaper and overall discomfort in my lower limb. It makes me feel nauseated. I observe my calf and it continues to twitch uncontrollably as if a microscale alien wants to burst out of my leg. Nothing new. I’ve plateaued. I try not to think about it. I am mastering the art of distraction, but with my PTSD I have found that, occasionally, I still lose my shit over nothing. Because of that, I started going to therapy at the start of spring so my toolbox that I use to deal with my overactive brain has been upgraded. And if one of my tools breaks I simply need to stop by the local Sears to have it replaced for free and… oh, Sears is defunct? Dang. The times they are a changin’.
One thing that I could do better when it comes to handling my emotions is when I get the obligatory, well-meaning comment “You look fine.” It’s usually from someone who knows what I’ve been through offering what they think they have to. They look at me from head to toe, and force a empathetic-looking smile. GAWD, I'd rather you talk about sports or the weather —How did Nagy do a complete 180 on Fields? There must’ve been pressure from the top. Was it Virginia McCaskey? Or, I knew Gruden was a shitbag! Or, how about these unseasonably warm temperatures? I think I might be pro-global warming.— Instead I get the awkward conversation topic of my appearance. I generally respond silently with a nod, accompanied by a sheepish half-crooked grin and then the other party, which again is trying their best even though no one asked for how they think I look, sometimes will add, “I mean, for everything you’ve been through, that is.” Yes, I am a living miracle or as I see it, like a weed that won’t die no matter how many times I’m sprayed with your costly Ortho herbicide. I’m the irradiated cockroach that survived the nuclear Holocaust.
You see, as Lord of the Grievances, I am learning through therapy how to let things go and live in the present. For example, recently, the village president of our small town stopped by while I was cutting the grass on the riding mower, one of the few chores I can do with relatively minimal pain. BIG TIME STUFF parked in our driveway and walked into the yard and waved me over. This must be important I thought to myself. Perhaps he was here to tell me the boys back at the garage were finally on their way to remove the racist (won’t be sharing) and vulgar (above) graffiti spray painted under the vehicular bridge that spans the creek behind our house where young children play. My wife had reported the crude-looking graffiti to the village back in January, March, July and again in September done by some local teenage artists. ‘Crude’ is me trying to dress up the terrible compositions. El Barto’s portrait of Principal Skinner with the word bubble “I AM A WEINER” on the Springfield Elementary School wall from S1 E2 looked like a Rembrandt in comparison. I turned off the mower, struggled to get off the machine, because I stiffen up after sitting for too long, and walked over to speak to him. As I began my slow saunter over to The Man, I wondered to myself, what could he possibly want? I don’t think I’ve ever said more than ‘hi’ to him at church. Whatever, a new adventure awaits. He started off with “I don’t want to anger you, but…” I stared blankly and motioned forward as if to say let’s hear it. He continued, “We are going to have to start cracking down on clippings in the street. I mean ticketing offenders.” Still silent, I just watched him as he continued, “Motorcyclists could slip on the grass that you left in the street and have an accident.” Then he gazed back at me expecting a response. ***crickets*** “So you gotta blow that off of there,” while pointing at the street. Really? Twice daily I watch newly teen drivers, as well as experienced adults, race past my house, not only ignoring the posted 20 MPH school zone signs and stop signs, but they do this while driving distracted by staring at their phones. A deep cut for me. But who am I to complain, amirite? Besides, the kids walking to and from school have already had their shot. Yet here I am learning about the dangers posed to cyclists by negligent homeowners like me not properly disposing of my grass clippings, not that I wasn’t going to take care of it eventually like I usually do since I was still in the middle of the first part of the job, but that’s enough of my nonconformist thoughts. #smalltownliving So I struggled, but managed a meek “OK” and he finally left. In the end I decided to just let it go and move on.
Another example of my extraordinary letting-it-go ability is from five years ago, just a few months removed from my accident, my wife’s boss stopped by the house as he saw me, by myself, relaxing on a hot summer day while sitting in a lawn chair, sipping some iced tea under the shade of a tree in our yard. Again, #smalltownliving. He started with normal, mundane chit-chat, but then out of nowhere, he asked “Does your dick still work?” I nearly spit out the tea I was in the process of swallowing right outta my mouth like a bad sitcom. What in tarnation did he just say? Did he just ask me what I think he just asked me? Should I ask him to repeat that? I kept my cool and I answered with a passive “Yeah,” hoping I misheard him. He then replied with “Good. She’s a good girl and needs to be taken care of.” Holy shit! I didn’t misunderstand him. He actually did ask me that. What do I say now? Jesus. Fortunately for me at that moment his adult son with cerebral palsy, that he left out in the sweltering July sunshine that was belted into his seat of the Gator ATV that Bossman rolled up in and left parked at the edge of our yard, called out for help and needed immediate assistance so they had to go. Whew. Anyway, I let that go too.
So, yeah, I’m understanding of many things, people are weird, but as a chronic pain sufferer, “You look fine” kinda rubs me the wrong way on a difficult day. I know, it’s me, not you and I gotta work at getting over this hurdle. Before I do I just want to remind you that post-mortem photography was a thing in the nineteenth century. I understand that the kick-ass old daguerreotype that you have so proudly displayed in the parlor you wanted me to notice on the way into your home of your great, great, etc. uncle makes him appear so angelic and innocent as an infant forever frozen in time, but that is because of rigor mortis. Your ancestor was dead and merely posed to look that cute, not because he was fine. Don’t get it? May I recommend a future vacation travel destination? I hear there’s an old amusement park near the Chernobyl disaster site in the ghost city of Pripyat that has been untouched for over 35 years that you should check out firsthand. It looks vintage and quite fine as I’ve seen in pictures. Point is you have no way of knowing how anyone is by looking at them, so maybe just save it. I know you mean well, but it may be taken the wrong way. Instead, let's talk about that White Sox fan wielding Gandalf's staff. Or maybe just keep it simple and ask how I'm doing, ignore my reply and then you can tell me all about those goddamn liberals and their vaccines and masks that do nothing and are in fact killing us. #smalltownliving
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to patrol the neighborhood and look for violators not obeying the grass clipping laws of our fair community. Since the town defunded the police1 years ago. I may have to take matters into my own hands and perform a good old-fashioned Mayberry citizen’s arrest.
1 Years back we used to have a police force of one, but then taxes, so the officer was let go. Now, nothing ever really happens around here, but when it does, like the time a man at the local car show set his truck on fire with gasoline and later went back into the burning vehicle to retrieve knives to throw at another man in the crowd, shit can get outta hand fast. The assailant, who I bet looked completely fine, was restrained when a few heroic individuals from the crowd forced him to the ground and sat on him until the authorities arrived. The man later died at the hospital after injuries sustained from all his excitement. A dedicated village law enforcement agent would have been a good thing to have on hand, but money. Read story HERE or try this LINK. It’s not that in an emergency we don’t receive help, it’s just that it takes county officers about fifteen minutes to respond because of the distance involved. (I timed it once after calling the police when we noticed someone with a flashlight inside an abandoned home near us one late night. I suspect it was the old residents who moved abruptly and they were tearing out the pipes for money, but I dunno, they left before the cops arrived.)
