Seconds
The English countryside was beautiful, clothed in a light rain, as I jogged along the path. I heard it pop and then I saw the rocks, sharp and jagged, coming toward me. I put out my hand to brace my fall, felt the weight of my body land, tried to roll and saw the skin of my knees tear. I tried to hop up, looked behind me to see if anyone had seen my not so graceful descent (because no one wants a witness to their clumsiness), and felt the world begin to turn black. I bent over, trying to get the blood back into my head and looked at my left ankle which was quickly swelling and appeared to have a tennis ball growing out the side of it. I stood back up, tried to hobble, felt the blackness begin to sink back in, and bent back over. Shit, shit, shit, I thought. I have a 15 minute walk back to Seb's house. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. I stood up, took two weak and wobbly steps, and this time when the white stars began to cover my eyes, I kept going. But when they didn't go away two steps later, I sat down on the ground.
"Are you okay?" I heard a man say. I looked up just as an older gentleman walked briskly toward me.
"No," I heard myself squeak, afraid I might begin to scream with the pain that shot up my leg or that throbbed through my hand.
When he reached me, looked at my bleeding legs and my grotesquely swollen ankle, he asked, "Where do you live?"
My first thought was, I don't actually live anywhere right now. I don't have a home. But that was a little melodramatic, so instead I said, "Near the train station." I didn't actually know where Seb lived, just that I had walked past the train station to get to the running trail.
"Can you walk there?" he asked.
I clutched his arm, afraid he might suddenly disappear and I would have to crawl back to the house or wait until Seb suddenly realized I'd been gone long enough to run a marathon and come looking for me.
"No, I don't think I can." This is where my luck began to change because it just so happened that this man (and the rest of his family who had wandered up to gawk at my disheveled body) lived a mere 40 feet away, down a steep, slippery embankment. As I gripped the man's shoulders as he half carried me down to their backyard, he asked me if I'd like to come in for some tea. Ah, the British.
I politely declined the tea.
After a short drive to Seb's house, where the man told me about some of the railroad history of East Grinstead, he dropped me off at the house. When I rang the doorbell, Seb opened the door and quickly ran back upstairs to finish his poker game, unaware of the fact that I was about to fall apart.
"I need help," I yelled up the stairs and when he came back down, saw the blood on my legs and grabbed me to hold me up, I let out a breath and let all of the tears slide past my control. And then, I couldn't stop. I sobbed for twenty minutes. I sobbed because of the pain, because of jet lag. Because I suddenly realized how screwed I would have been if someone hadn't come along to save me. I sobbed because I could see the concern on Seb's face and his yearning to do something but not sure what (which just made me love him more because he was doing exactly what I needed him to do). And then, sitting in the bathtub, focusing on picking the dirt out of my wounds, I suddenly stopped crying.
I stopped crying until last night; two weeks later. When, sitting in my apartment (that's actually a pimped out closet) in Korea, with my ankle up in the air and my toes that are now a dark purple color and my ankle which is still swollen and red from entertaining kids all day, I suddenly felt trapped. Trapped by an injury. But also trapped by circumstance. Trapped by 'shoulds.'
I'm in Korea because I'm in a relationship with someone from another country which has proven to have its obstacles. Obstacles like work and visas and housing. Things I took for granted in every other relationship. But now that I've met someone I want to be with, actually being together has presented a few challenges. So, I came to Korea to better equip myself (with money) so that when the two of us move to Spain, we can really make a go of it. The trouble is that every time we separate, I feel a deep hollowness in my chest like something has been ripped out. And then I start to think about the future and I worry about money and I worry about work and I worry about visas and I worry about where the two of us can go to be together. And it gets to be too much and then I start to cry.
And then, there is a moment, when I suddenly realize...this is it. This right here. This is it. (This moment usually comes after I speak to Seb and he reminds me not to worry about it, that we'll cross that bridge when we get to it).
It's easy to live in the moment when I'm with Seb. I'm happy then. It's easy to just sit back and enjoy it, not worry about the future or the past. But here, when things don't seem so fantastic, It's difficult to be present. It is difficult to be present when I'm sad, because everything in me tells me I shouldn't, that I need to be happy. But I hate shoulds and shouldn'ts and when I finally settle in and just feel sad, it fades, I move past it.
And I realize, even when I feel like I'd rather be any other place than where I'm at, that if I just take it second by second, there is so much beauty I would have otherwise missed by wishing time away.
"Are you okay?" I heard a man say. I looked up just as an older gentleman walked briskly toward me.
"No," I heard myself squeak, afraid I might begin to scream with the pain that shot up my leg or that throbbed through my hand.
When he reached me, looked at my bleeding legs and my grotesquely swollen ankle, he asked, "Where do you live?"
My first thought was, I don't actually live anywhere right now. I don't have a home. But that was a little melodramatic, so instead I said, "Near the train station." I didn't actually know where Seb lived, just that I had walked past the train station to get to the running trail.
"Can you walk there?" he asked.
I clutched his arm, afraid he might suddenly disappear and I would have to crawl back to the house or wait until Seb suddenly realized I'd been gone long enough to run a marathon and come looking for me.
"No, I don't think I can." This is where my luck began to change because it just so happened that this man (and the rest of his family who had wandered up to gawk at my disheveled body) lived a mere 40 feet away, down a steep, slippery embankment. As I gripped the man's shoulders as he half carried me down to their backyard, he asked me if I'd like to come in for some tea. Ah, the British.
I politely declined the tea.
After a short drive to Seb's house, where the man told me about some of the railroad history of East Grinstead, he dropped me off at the house. When I rang the doorbell, Seb opened the door and quickly ran back upstairs to finish his poker game, unaware of the fact that I was about to fall apart.
"I need help," I yelled up the stairs and when he came back down, saw the blood on my legs and grabbed me to hold me up, I let out a breath and let all of the tears slide past my control. And then, I couldn't stop. I sobbed for twenty minutes. I sobbed because of the pain, because of jet lag. Because I suddenly realized how screwed I would have been if someone hadn't come along to save me. I sobbed because I could see the concern on Seb's face and his yearning to do something but not sure what (which just made me love him more because he was doing exactly what I needed him to do). And then, sitting in the bathtub, focusing on picking the dirt out of my wounds, I suddenly stopped crying.
I stopped crying until last night; two weeks later. When, sitting in my apartment (that's actually a pimped out closet) in Korea, with my ankle up in the air and my toes that are now a dark purple color and my ankle which is still swollen and red from entertaining kids all day, I suddenly felt trapped. Trapped by an injury. But also trapped by circumstance. Trapped by 'shoulds.'
I'm in Korea because I'm in a relationship with someone from another country which has proven to have its obstacles. Obstacles like work and visas and housing. Things I took for granted in every other relationship. But now that I've met someone I want to be with, actually being together has presented a few challenges. So, I came to Korea to better equip myself (with money) so that when the two of us move to Spain, we can really make a go of it. The trouble is that every time we separate, I feel a deep hollowness in my chest like something has been ripped out. And then I start to think about the future and I worry about money and I worry about work and I worry about visas and I worry about where the two of us can go to be together. And it gets to be too much and then I start to cry.
And then, there is a moment, when I suddenly realize...this is it. This right here. This is it. (This moment usually comes after I speak to Seb and he reminds me not to worry about it, that we'll cross that bridge when we get to it).
It's easy to live in the moment when I'm with Seb. I'm happy then. It's easy to just sit back and enjoy it, not worry about the future or the past. But here, when things don't seem so fantastic, It's difficult to be present. It is difficult to be present when I'm sad, because everything in me tells me I shouldn't, that I need to be happy. But I hate shoulds and shouldn'ts and when I finally settle in and just feel sad, it fades, I move past it.
And I realize, even when I feel like I'd rather be any other place than where I'm at, that if I just take it second by second, there is so much beauty I would have otherwise missed by wishing time away.
I couldn't read this fast enough. I felt your pain, or at least what I imagine you pain must be. The obvious pain of the ankle incident. And the pain of dread or worry or fear or whatever it is that makes us fret about the future. But I do think your future is bright with lots of ups and downs yet to come....but what a ride it is going to be. You are in love!
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