Let it fall…
What would you say if I said I suffered extreme pain the last few days? Would you feel sorry, curious, or perhaps think something like, why should I care? Perhaps you did feel sorry, then I am grateful, perhaps you think why would he suffer pain? Then I’d be somewhat grateful too, knowing that someone would actually think about me. Or perhaps you’re part of the group who don’t care. I wouldn’t care less, you probably don’t know me and nor do I know you.
The pain. The pain was in my foot. My right foot to be exact. It was very weird actually. Starting with just a sting I thought it wasn’t really something worth mentioning, because stings happen all the time. When you move too fast, or make a wrong move. Mine felt just like those. One difference though. Within 30 minutes the pain radidly increased. I could hardly stand, unless I was leaning on my left foot, keeping the right elevated. That meant I couldn’t really walk anymore. Yep, I was temporarily disabled. I even got a wheelchair.
Something wrong though, I didn’t go to the hospital, nor to a GP or a doctor. I just went home, got picked up by my parents and drove home. There we called something called a GP-post, something that’s open outside of office hours, because the GP was already closed and back home by the time I was home. According to the people at the GP-post I might have an inflammation in a muscle in my foot, or I just sprained something. Not that they saw my foot, remember? I just called them and got a consult over the phone. I had to answer some questions, and having studied medicine (NOT) I am very trustworthy right?
Here’s what they wanted me to do. Let my poor little foot rest. Keeping it elivated. And if I would be in too much pain just take some ordinary painkillers like Ibuprofen, Nurofen or Paracetamol. Yep, that’s what they wanted me to do. Take more painkillers and just be in pain, disabled, elivated foot and let it rest. That the government for having a winterbreak of school so rest wouldn’t be such a bad problem.
Now, you might think my story ends here. I doesn’t. My dad got the brilliant idea to call my aunt, because apparently she would have heat or cold patches to put on my foot so if there would be an inflammation it would cool down and get rid of whatever bad things are in that muscle. Of course after calling my aunt she wanted to see me so she could examine my foot, didn’t even know she was a doctor. After arriving there I soon found out she isn’t a doctor in medicine, but more into the mental area I guess. Not a shrink or something, something in between I guess. Well, she exmanined my still very painful foot and started feeling, touching and stroking parts of it. Weirdly enough, it didn’t tickle me and trust me I already just when someone tickles or even touches my sides.
Here’s what my aunt told me. They(yep, plural, my aunt and her guidance I guess, her spirit guide?) felt by touching my foot that I have tremendous amounts of tension in me. I’m all tensed up by having a lot of stress, feeling trapped in some ways. She felt that I was tired, either because of a lack of sleep or just the amount of thoughts I have or a combination of both. She also felt, which creeped me out the most, that I wasn’t really happy anymore. That when I smile it never reaches my eyes anymore, that it acts as a facade now, a wall to protect me. Why is that creepy to me? Because that is what I do, I act like I’m happy all the time, but the biggest part is just protection, to not get hurt by others, to keep myself safe from harm. That’s why it creeped me out. She sensed that, by touching my foot.
According to her I’m still very flexibal, that I can still change. All I need to do it talk, talk about what I’m thinking, what I feel, and get it off my chest and out of my head. And even though I have a lot of friends and know a lot, I am the kind of person who never really talks. I prefer to keep it to myself, something I shouldn’t really do apparently. It’ll kill me someday.
But that day won’t come just yet. The fact that I don’t talk about everything won’t kill me. I’ll just write it down. I don’t care if that will be here or on actual paper, but I feel it’ll help me way more if I just write it down and trust it to paper (or blogs) instead of someone I (think I) trust only to be hurt again right?
So, paper and pen, here I come. Someday.
~ Storm J. Night
Listening to Basic Space – The XX
