I pulled my glutes. At first it was kinda funny that I pulled my bum and all, but after making it worse by trying to carry on, I’m not really laughing any more.
I tried to stand up last night, muscles ripping tears from my eyes in pain and frustration. Seizing up, shutting down. A night’s sleep, muscles frozen in place, loss of movement and strength. So I shuffled around for a bit today, from room to room, pretending to myself that the pain didn’t exist, but it did and it drew my soul to grey.
I went to bed and I tried to get up and I couldn’t, I couldn’t move my legs. I cried and eventually crawled out and had a bath and finally gave up on trying to be ok. So I had my first ever ibuprofen and washed it down with good coffee and a bowl full of sweets and wrapped up my injured self in clouds of blankets. And I write it out as I wait for the painkillers to kick in, accepting that time must slow, letting go of frustration and inviting in waiting, resting, creativity. I listen to the rain hammer the windows and the gales blow haunting notes down the stone chimney. I rest as darkness envelops the valley and I accept the healing it offers.
I look at the pile of magazines waiting beside me and allow myself a small smile and a longer rest.