It’s been five weeks and three days since I wrecked my left foot, and I swear, I am going mad. The only places I’ve been out of the house in the last fortnight are work, medical appointments and Guides.
Today I propelled myself around the block with my crutches and my (misnamed, as it’s blatantly not really meant for) walking cast, which is already starting to crumble around the edges. That is a grand distance of 0.76 miles (at an average speed of 1.66 mph, thanks Google) and represents my longest outing yet. The world’s suddenly turned to Autumn, and I’m still hobbling in search of my lost summer.
I miss walking like… really, I don’t have the words for this one. Walking is my coping mechanism; my way of thinking, and dealing; it’s how I find a rhythm; it’s my way of experiencing the world. And I don’t have it right now.
I don’t do indoors. I don’t do dependency. Or asking for help.
It turns out what I do do rather well is frustration and self pity.
Whinge over. 26 days to go…