I Tore My MCL And You Can Too!

I was leaving swim practice Monday night. I have to leave a little early on Mondays so that I can get to the wonderful Kris Stoner’s house for a bit of community. I was walking through the locker room at the pool and the janitor was mopping. I said aloud to the janitor, “Wow. It’s wet. I should be careful.”

Famous last words. I slipped, heard my knee pop in the air, and then landed on my knees and hands.

An hour later, after a lot of tears and irrelevant X-rays and one sadistic, knee prodding doctor, I was told I tore my MCL. Tearing an ACL ends one’s professional football career. Tearing an MCL puts one in a lot of pain, but one can “easily” recover. So my recovery plan: wear a metal knee brace for six to eight weeks, take codeine, do not stand, elevate knee at all times, and ice every chance I get.

Tuesday I went to school and tried my best to elevate, not stand, and ice. Being a teacher is hard. Being a teacher and then being told not to stand is almost impossible. And I have really great classes this semester. But I made it through the day, went back to swim practice (I know, I know) and then cried in pain that night. Then we were on Thanksgiving break, the perfect time to rest. Well, I did not rest. I cannot rest. I ran errands on Wednesday, went and hung out with friends, and elevated when I could. Thanksgiving I sat and iced. Then Friday, I went to the ER.

They thought I had a blood clot in my leg. Turns out I did not, but talk about some of the scariest hours of my life. As I was waiting for the ultrasound results my mom turned to me and reminded me of the woman I was afraid to make angry when I was in middle school. “Mira. Listen to me, I am the mom, you are the daughter. I am telling you, you must rest. You must let me help you. And you have to relax.” Now, that does not sound scary, but if you know Sebrena, then you know it was terrifying.

I am so grateful for the community I have. From family, to coworkers, to fellow Crosspointe members, I have a wealth of people to help me. I have friends who are willing to drive me anywhere, to cook food, and to clean my apartment. But I rarely ask for help. I am prideful. I have a hard time accepting help. I want to prove that I am not an invalid. I can clean my apartment, wash clothes, cook dinner, and grocery shop. But then I earn a spot in the waiting room at the ER. I have to learn to accept help. I have to trust that people are being earnest in their offers to assist me. I have to acknowledge that people want to be helpful. I would bend over backwards (which with my current situation makes me sick to think about) to help anyone that was in my situation.

So why can I not acknowledge and receive these helpful offers? I feel weak when I receive assistance and I do not want to admit that I am weak. I have been taught to be a strong woman: that I should be independent, thoughtful, and brave. So I try to do that in everything I do. Including tearing my MCL and trying to live a “normal” life. Now, I am not blaming how I was raised. This independent spirit is something that I have procured over the years and is something I am proud of. But I feel that if I do not learn to accept help now, then I am only further hindering my recovery plan.

The song “With A Little Help From My Friends” by The Beatles popped into my head when I began writing this. I need to lean on my friends, for they are there when I am alone, sad, and need help. And for me, the hard part to comprehend is that they want to be there, just how I want to be there for them. So after a not so restful Thanksgiving break and foreseeing plenty more frustrating moments over the next eight weeks, I have decided to ask for help, to humble myself, and welcome aid. So my friends: please keep offering to grab papers for me, to take books across the room for me, and to carry my bags to the car. I want to get by with a little help from my friends.

My new recovery plan: wear a metal knee brace for six to eight weeks, take codeine, do not stand, elevate knee at all times, ice every chance I get, and accept assistance. All of these things will make me stronger. I am sure of it.

Worry and Control and Fear. Oh My.

Worrying has become my default emotion lately. Worry consumes my mind and attempts to coexist with my otherwise positive thoughts. Then Worry gets stronger and bigger and threatens to beat up the positive thoughts. Worry eventually fights Positive, beating him senseless, proving once and for all that Worry is the victor. And this internal warfare just continues each and every day.

Since I was a kid I have been told that I am a "worrywart" by my entire family. I use to blame that on being the oldest and having to assume some type of leadership role in my family, and as any dutiful leader, I must be worried about the people. (Evidently, I also believe I am some sort of princess or queen?) I firmly believe that whatever you (parents) call your children influences them later in life. I am definitely not blaming my family for my present day worrying, but I do think that worrying whilst a child has led to my current misgivings.

I am anxiety-laden concerning a myriad of things each day. And yes, I always overthink everything I say, think, or do. (See here for more of that.)
Will I get all my work done during my planning period? (The answer is always no.)
What does that email really mean? (Typically, it means what it says.)
I have a headache, is this a brain tumor? (No.)
Am I a good enough teacher? (Who knows the answer to this one?)
What is the right answer? (Nobody really knows.)
Does my hair still look ok? (There is a lot of hair spray up there, so it should be fine.)
How disappointed is God because I keep avoiding quiet time? (From what I have been told, he is not disappointed in me.)
What if they find out I am a fraud? (It is ok. They are frauds too.)
Did I respond to that parent in the appropriate way? (Yes.)
When that student said I was unclear, then I went back and clarified, did she really understand or was she just saying she did? (If she did not, she will come back and let me know.)
I am having heart palpitations, this has to be a heart attack, right? (No.)
Why is that guy following me on the Duke trail? (Because he is running too.)

And that is just a snapshot of how my brain works throughout the day. I worry about meaningful choices and decisions I make, but then I feel uneasy about normal, mundane events. I recognize my apprehension, but then I cannot escape those thoughts. This post makes me sound totally crazy, but I know that verbalizing fear can reduce the fear itself. If you know me in any capacity, then you know that I am 95% cheerful and optimistic. I have pretty much been that way my entire life, but worry makes up the remaining five percent and it is something worth talking about.

This weekend, I was fortunate to hear my friend Steve speak about worry, fear, and our attempts to control the outcomes of the monster our fears create. I feel that my fear and worry derive from my desire to control what happens. I am a control freak. There, I said it. I love being in control. And I guess worry consumes me when I know I cannot control the outcome. I do not know how that parent will react. I do not know if people will judge me for saying the wrong answer; that is why I hate riddles and Calculus.

There is a freedom in saying or doing something and then releasing it into the world and then being content in whatever the response is. I am not like that. I release words or actions and then I marinate on them, turning over power to the fear of "what if". In my lack of control, the apprehension and second guessing maturate, resulting in my inability to be content.

So where do I go from here? Do I seek a higher power to guide me and pull me out of this downward spiral? Of course I do. And I want to be able to rest in my relationship with God in all things that I do. But is that a reality? I am not sure. If I am aware of what I am doing and am actively choosing to change my thought process, does that count as making strides to improve myself? Do I need to pray about it? See, even in this, I worry what the correct response is. Overall, it seems as if I cannot escape worry. Perhaps one day I can turn my worry into contentment, slowly relinquishing fear. 

Why I Hate The Holidays

Thinking about the holidays really stresses me out. The commercialization, the forced family time, and the obsessive fixation on Christmas music cause me to despise the holiday season. I use to hate the holidays even more than I do now, but I have relaxed a bit in my old age.

However, in all my Grinch-ness, there is one holiday that may turn this entire thing around. Thanksgiving has always been a low impact kind of holiday. As a child I got to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, stay in my pajamas all day, hear my mom complain about cooking a ton of food, eating the amazing traditional Thanksgiving dinner, watch some movies, and then go to bed. As I became a teenager, I took a more active role in the holiday. I would offer to help cook and my mom would give me some menial task like sautéing onions or peeling potatoes. It’s probably in those moments in that kitchen in North Durham with the dark brown, stained cabinets and beige countertops that I began to like cooking. I wanted to slice, chop, and stir all the time.

When I went to college I liked the break from school that was always associated with Thanksgiving. Don’t get me wrong, I loved getting a break from school my whole life. But there is something about coming home from college and walking into your childhood home and seeing all the fall decorations and the various pots and pans already being set out in preparation of the upcoming feast. During college, Thanksgiving meant I had someone else to cook for me and I did not have to get up early and run off to class. I still had plenty of reading to do for my classes, but the workload somehow felt less intense. 

In the last few years my parents' divorce has definitely added to the list of reasons why I dislike the holidays. They separated before Thanksgiving two years ago and I remember that specific Thanksgiving being a strange, awkward, and horrid event.

Last year was the first Thanksgiving in my mom's new townhouse. There are already so many emotions swirling around this topic and now facing a major holiday in this new home could result in a major emotional breakdown. Since Thanksgiving is my mom's favorite holiday my brother, sister, and I decided we were going to make it special for her. I came over early and cooked breakfast, we watched the parade, and helped my mom cook dinner. And while we shared what we were thankful for, waxed poetic about the past, and began to get comfortable on the couch I realized that I actually really loved the day. I loved spending time with my mom, I loved starting the tradition of cooking breakfast for everyone that morning, I loved getting to watch the parade, and I loved Thanksgiving. And even though the holidays usually solicit pain for a myriad of reasons, this holiday was actually really great. So great that my heart grew three sizes that day. 

Do I still dislike the holiday season? Yes. But I think I am warming up to it.