The Ankle Story about My Foot

Okay. So. I’m not dead. And I’ve been told I have to quit my fucked up emotional/mental block, stop stalling and fucking write for fuck’s sake. I promised I’d do so today. I swore when I came back, there would be this long explanation and apology and replies to all of you kind and beautiful people…but that’s part of what has kept me away. The anxiety ratchets up higher and higher the more I think about it. And the thing is, I don’t really even have much of an excuse except that I’m kind of a fucking headcase sometimes (which most of you already know).

So. Ahem. Part of my promise is that I wouldn’t delve into the whole thing right now (okay, okay, I’m getting to it). Instead, I’m supposed to copy and paste VERFUCKINGBATIM a rambly, typo-ridden tale that I rattled off to Ezekiel months ago to explain my whole broken foot thingy. Which for some reason he kept calling a broken ankle. Hence the title. Apparently, I’m not allowed to edit this rambly stream-of-consciousness mess. (Thanks, Ezekiel.)  So, without further ado, here’s The Ankle Story about My Foot.  (Brace yourselves. It’s messy as fuck.)

~

On the way to Glacier, I spent a day and a half at Badlands National Park. I did a trail called The Notch. My Fat Ass climbed the notch. I had CROSSED IT OFF my list of doable trails. But then I FORGOT the name of the trail, yeah?

So I’m walking along, see a trailhead.

The Notch?

I wanted to do that one, right?

Yeah! The Notch! Sounds cool!

I walk along for a while.

Then BAM. These steep, nearly vertical wooden steps held up on steel cables.

My heart was in my throat.

I nearly turned around.

You can’t do this, Stephanie. You’re too fat. Your arthritis is all hurty. You have GNP to look forward to. You can’t do this. YOU CANNOT. YOU ARE INCAPABLE. YOU’RE WEAK. YOU’RE FAT. YOU. CAN. NOT. DO. THIS.

And then I quite literally charged the motherfucker.

The self-hatred talking somehow lit a fire that had the opposite affect.

And I charged that motherfucking ladder.

And about 2/3 up, I froze. I froze.

And I started crying.

Shaking.

Realizing how afraid I was of the vertical climb at this point.

Realizing how weak my legs already were. (It’s not that high of a climb.)

And I started saying, out loud: I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

Then I’d haul myself up to the next step. All the while afraid I was gonna fall and break my neck.

I can’t do this. I can’t. Ohmygod. What do I do now?

And then I snapped.

Again.

And said out loud.

FUCK YOU I CAN’T. FUCK YOU. YES I CAN!

And I finished it.

There were these hugely muscular dudes at the top waiting to go down (if I’d known this, I wouldn’t have climbed…good thing I didn’t know). I waited for ridicule, instead…they both high-fived me and were all “FUCK YEAH! YOU DID IT!”

I knew I’d have to go back down later, and that scared me, too.

But I focused on the trail ahead.

I nearly fell a couple times.

Had some scary moments of “I can’t” again. But I kept pushing forward.

Got lost at one point.

Found my way back.

I was so proud.

I climbed The Notch!

Me!

Sure, other people were running up and down the fucker. Could do it in their sleep.

But me?

Yeah…my body wasn’t up for it.

BUT MY MIND WAS.

And I did it.

So.

GNP a couple days later.

My thighs were still PISSED.

But no way was that going to stop me from exploring heaven on earth.

One night, about halfway through, I knew I had a big hike ahead of me the next day. 12 miles in the mountains.

So I’m stretching at my campsite.

I know there’s a word for it.

But I’m kinda dim. So let’s see.

You know the stretch where you’re standing on one foot and you reach behind yourself and grab your other foot and pull it up to your ass? That stretch?

I was going for that one because it feels sooo good. And I needed it.

I grabbed for my foot.

Got my ankle instead.

Hand slipped.

BAM. My big toe flew straight down to the picnic table. Straight. Down. With all that force.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, screaming into my palm, and fell to the ground.

Blood was everywhere. I lay there for probably fifteen minutes.

Finally got up, limped to my first aid stash, cleaned it up.

Saw that I had split the nail in two.

Couldn’t move the toe without crying.

I had to skip the next day’s hike. I was supremely upset.

This was going to be an epic hike.

And I had to skip.

So instead of wallowing around in the tent all day, I wrapped my toe up all crazy padded and drove to some of the more lookout kinda sites.

The next (last) day, I scrapped the plans I’d made for it and did the hike I’d missed instead.

Fucking. Epic. Shit.

But at the very beginning/very end, there are these really high steps cut into the mountain.

I should have sat on my butt on the way back and eased myself down.

Because fat.

Because knees.

But I didn’t.

I practically flew down those steps.

Got a super happy pic at the end of the trail. People high-fiving me because I was so excited and pumped and like fist-pumping the air. I did it!

By the time I made it back to the car, I was limping.

By the time I got my boot off, my foot  was so swollen I couldn’t articulate my foot/ankle.

I had broken my left foot.

And they only discovered it was broken in January. Because the breaks never showed on X-Rays.

Finally had an MRI in January, and two breaks in that foot.

After doctors had implied it was all in my head.

~

So. Uhm. Yeah. Ezekiel was right. (Yeah, yeah. Piss off.) If I even started trying to edit that, I’d never post it. (Which would defeat the whole purpose – to get my ass back to Stephellaneous and my dear Peopleaneous.) Look at that mess. Holy twatmonkeys. FYI: That’s a glimpse of what rambly conversations look like with The Stephanie.

P.S. Sneak Preview: I’m in Oregon. More to come.