Today it dawned on me, clear as a bright winter day: I had until now minimized my situation and cherished completely unrealistic expectations of how quickly I’d feel normal again. That denial was to be expected — it’s a defense mechanism, to get you through the early shock. But pretty soon I saw the evidence that I was NOT on the fast-track to normalcy. That sore rib was a clue; even more — the scary rickety feeling when I went walking outdoors. I understand how this misunderstanding with myself arose: I usually bounce back so quickly from injuries and distress that I don’t even check in with myself — I order myself to be fine, and I usually am, or am able to make myself so by sheer grit. But I just couldn’t pull it off this time.
As a personal responsibility freak, this surprised me. But what surprised me even more was my uncharacteristic sympathy with myself. Years ago, a therapist pointed out that I would never treat another person with the contemptuous severity which I routinely visit upon myself. But I didn’t do that today — rather than excoriate myself, call myself a spoiled brat and sternly order myself to quit malingering, I tenderly empathized with my injured body and psyche. It was wonderfully comforting, and dramatically different from my usual psychology.
Of course I can’t leave it at that. (If you are following this, you can tell I’m kind of into self-analysis.) I worry — if I give myself a break this time — that I’m poised on a slippery slope to overlook and excuse laziness and hypochondria in the future. But that’s a question for another day. Today I am allowed to bask in empathy, compassion and forgiveness.
Linnetontheleaf 
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