First of all I would like to point out that it is very hard to adjust to typing without my middle finger. I was hoping for some sort of compensating brain-override but no. I keep trying to bash all of the third-from-the-right keys with my heavily bandaged middle finger and it’s all kinds of not working.
Not Working pretty much describes how everything feels right now. I am not coping. I get that this is likely to be an autistic tic at play here, I do. And with that in mind I keep trying to talk myself down and give myself a break as I am aware that I need to forgive myself for my neuro-atypicalities. It’s Not Working.
Basically, for those who don’t know, I jumped between my fighting dogs. I KNOW you’re not supposed to do this. I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it as I was doing. I KNOW water is the solution. But all I could think is “Maisie is going to kill Angus and Noah will jump in if I don’t”. I was not ok with either of them getting hurt and cared nothing for any risks to myself.
What an idiot.
Angus almost bit my right middle fingertip off and one of them got my left hand, though not too badly.
I am devastated. Derailed. A fart in the wind.
EVERYTHING is an event at the moment. Making a cup of coffee requires extra concentration. Bathing is such a chore I’m not even bothering to do it daily at the moment. I haven’t put lotion on my body in two weeks. Shaving my legs is not an option. Making the bed? Nope. Nevermind actually shelving books. I can do nothing without risking harm to my finger and I have to remain hyper aware of protecting it lest I cause more damage and end up lengthening the healing process.
And the antibiotics I took to help the situation caused nothing but constant nausea, vomiting, an upset stomach, and hives.
I am completely spent.
My absolute favourite most rejuvenating time of year.
But the thing is that I started the year considering checking myself into a mental care facility. Feeling burnt out and anxious, spiralling lower and lower. Of course that option quickly went out of the window on enquiring about costs. Luckily I also realised that for some reason facilitated “mental care” includes a lot of group activity which is not at all what my particular brand of fragility needs, so the disappointment that came along with the unaffordability was short lived.
I have now pretty much taken two weeks off and I plan to take a third anyway. My concerns about “not having time” to visit a mental hospital now seem extra daft. And I feel so stupid about it! I can’t work because my finger is sore and I have a rash… How pathetic! And how impossible not to compare oneself to others who just get on with things despite far more serious afflictions. I am a failure. And my finger is fucking sore.
Theoretically I know it’s not “that big a deal”. I am healing just fine. The sepsis is gone. I just need to calm down and heal.
And yet still, like a spoiled brat who can’t get her way, I find myself stamping my feet in devastated disappointment that I cannot type at the moment (seriously this is so laborious I maybe should have considered typing this on my phone instead of my laptop because at least my phone only requires the use of thumbs and index fingers) when I was just feeling so good about blogging more regularly. I am equally, if not more, furious that I have not been able to efficiently work. I tried at first but it was just too hard. None of it working in the beautiful streamline that I have spent the last two years curating. Plus trying to work through a fog of painkillers and an antibiotic allergy proved impossible. Wrapping up parcels with only one hand? How? Writing down notes for myself? An absolute nightmare. I legit signed with an X when I checked myself into the emergency room. Subsequently I have figured out how to write but cannot really read my own handwriting.
This is so stupid! And yet it is what it is.
I can’t work. I can’t get on with my life.
Because my damn finger is sore.
It feels utterly ridiculous!
(Pics: healing progress on my finger and an example of the rash covering my entire body.)
I have to wonder if this feeling of extreme contempt and anxiety at this very not-such-a-big-deal situation isn’t exacerbated by the much lager parallel to be found in our new lockdown lives. For almost a year we’ve been waiting for the “after” part of all of this. A future that will return us to how it was before. A wait that has been so long, and so constantly extended, that most of us are feeling hopelessly battle weary and continuously afraid.
If I could just take a deep breath and settle into the now instead of begrudging the disappointment. Relax. Pick up a book. Take advantage of the situation. Heal. Later it will be ok again.
Let me do that. Heal. Be ok again. Tomorrow is coming regardless.
If I could just get my nitpicking self-sabotaging aggressively bullyish inner voice to just shut the fuck up and let me get on with it.
She’s such a cow!