Broken Finger

     I always considered myself to be an active person. I love sports and movement, bordering on adrenaline thrills such as rock climbing and trekking alone in remote places. I always just thought about it as just part of my identity and proclivities. I grew up with instability and fear, and I feel like I learned to thrive in instability and fear, although in truth I think it was slowly destroying my mental health – if I ever considered myself mentally healthy having had the childhood and youth I had.

     There is a rush in solving problems in the nick of time, stretching leftovers into a nice meal, falling in love desperately, winning that game, running that marathon, taking that unnecessary risk or driving without destination. It’s a drug that makes you feel alive. Don’t get me wrong, being an active person is somewhat healthy, but anything can be used as a crutch if you don’t pay attention. Pay attention to what? Pay attention to your inner world and what’s really going on in there.

     As you can read throughout this journal, I had a mental collapse and I’ve been writing as a process of registering my thoughts in hopes it may one day help someone else, even if that someone else is me. I feel like my fingers are wise. Wow, I didn’t know I would set myself up in such a perfect way to write about what I set myself up to write about. I love this. Yes, wise fingers. (Maybe I should change the title)

     This year I picked up beach volleyball as a sport. It seems healthy and it was in a way, but it was also a desperate attempt to not feel my sadness and loneliness at coming back home to the real world. The evenings can be miserable, so volleyball kept the darkness at bay and kept me feeling awesome always. Well, not always. I was still angry, frustrated and sometimes I didn’t even enjoy the game so much, but it was still better than having to pay attention to what was going on.

     My finger broke. I needed surgery. I had to cancel my amazing rock-climbing project, my kayaking and so many of my other activities. I was terrified of the sadness, the black sad hole I go to that makes me want to stop living, but there was no way out, so I braced myself, help my breath and expected the worse, the very worse.

     I know what the worst is. I know what feeling so sad that you don’t want to live anymore is. I know what it’s like to feel so alone that you have nobody to spend your birthday with. I know pain and it’s horrific. But as I kept waiting for it to come, weeks passed by, and I felt fine. Not amazing, but fine, stable. In fact, my body was exhausted. I had been pushing myself for years and I hadn’t stopped just to rest. Rest was something I avoided, because it forced me to pay attention, but it was something I desperately needed and there was nothing to fear anymore.

     I spent more than two months in this state, being forced to face my biggest fear, but it wasn’t there anymore, at least not in the huge proportion it used to be. It got smaller. It got smaller or I got bigger. Maybe I got bigger.

     Maybe there is hope for people like us, people with unsettled minds. Maybe with patience and care and love and time, lots of time, we can finally be allowed to not be afraid of the dark anymore.

     Maybe we don’t have to turn on the light, because maybe we are the light. Maybe if we learn to listen to our heart and our body – in my case, my finger – we can find exactly what we need. 

     Maybe it's okay to break sometimes. I don't mean that cliché quote "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger". I'm not into that toxic positivity. I mean if it doesn't kill you, you're still alive. period. A little crooked, but standing. My finger is not as beautiful as it used to be, but I can type, I can play volleyball, I can wipe my ... face ... and I can comb my hair. 

     Maybe, just maybe, life is livable, almost enjoyable.