tl;dr NP; hugs

After 10 years of physical disability I'm very cautious about hope. Misplaced, it is very dangerous in the repercussions that can follow.

A corset like support wrapped around my ribs seemed very promising. It was one of my last potential remedies for a life outside of this bedroom prison.

Two weeks ago I lifted something heavy while wearing the corset. I held the item close to my torso, like I always do. I made it halfway across the house before I felt the little odd twinge of a pain; like a sapling tree yielding the most minor of prostrations to the god of pain.

I had asked family for help carrying the thing, but asking is so very demeaning, asking twice felt ready to strip me bare. The alternative was to stop eating, or rather ruin 2 weeks worth of food prep. This situation speaks to the reality of the unimaginable twist to one's mental health in chronic circumstances; the frustration of helplessness is most damning.

Still, I tried to ignore it, to press on. I didn't and couldn't know how much that little twinge would cost me. It broadcast itself in an everpresent noise in my conscious and an infinite supply of sand, grinding through my spine when my head turns left; the rhythm section playing the torso twist. This injury seemed different than most of those that had come before. It was a few ribs higher than ribs 5 and below that were wrapped tightly at the time.

I had felt so good initially with the corset. I even told my family, "if it persists, I'll get a job at the first of the year," –fool that I am to have such hope.

Hope—that terrible precipice; the cliff of danger. Hope is blind, like the naïveté of a child running in the dark of a moonless night. The pain of that hidden precipice edge is so sharp a merciless knife.

I broke some ribs back in April of 2020. It was the best two weeks I have had since 2014; even better than the 3 days I got from a spinal injection. The relief from my ribs breaking sewed the seeds that lead to the corset. There were minor remedies that I tried, but I never broke through to the point of possible hope. When the corset idea struck, I still cautiously approached the precipice terrified of the danger of hope. A fear I learned from countless experiences of hurling myself over the edge into the unknown into that chasm. Like battling through the fog as a human cannonball, determined to find an inevitable surface, refusing to acknowledge the existence of uncrossable oceans.

The very mention of uncrossable oceans is homo sapien heresy for physical health. The heresy of empiricism. It is the second front of the battle; a flanking cavalry cutting down those that fail to cross the void and march on in life; wielding the swords of ignorant assumptions; adding the heavy load of self doubt even in the face of clear evidence.

Four weeks ago I started a project. It was the foundation of a cannon shot with hope. 'Complete it, and I would consider myself capable,' I told myself, 'escapable, to have landed on a weak and marshy shoal of some sort, but arrived on some other side.' I let myself believe in a chance, a chance that this shot is my last; the closure of a chapter; the chance to mourn 8 of 9 of my (cat) lives lost on that fateful February bicycle commute. A chance for a celebration; of remaining life potential; of connections; of love, kindness, empathy, and growth I so desperately need to give someone at the core of my meaningful existence... I could do so much, even now...

Or at least, that is a direction I still have not fired my human cannon of hope. I think the fear of hurling into that void is one I'm unlikely to overcome. Talking to people online, I am far too scared to act. It doesn't matter anyways. No one would ever want to be on this terrible prison island, home to a tribe of headhunter cannibals, eager to make a meal of any genuine person over the bonfire of Christostupidity. I fear discovering a void in this direction more than anything but maybe homelessness I fear more. I have no interest in the primitive cannibals.

I failed at my project; my hope. One of so very very many. For two weeks so far I cannot sleep more than 4-5 hours, and wake up feeling exhausted from the hellish tormenting god of pain. Taking any medication that stops me from laboring and twisting the grinding stone of spinal sand will make the problem worse. I must shut down entirely, lying in bed; watching the movie of life as nothing more than a viewer.

My failure is my professional incompetence. In this case a poorly thought out element in a CAD design.

I did an unthinkable project. I worked on my tool chain I need to use for physical therapy activity. I need to return to that routine now, to battle through this defeat.

It took two weeks for the tears of this message to coalesce; to assess the scope of the battle; to clear the fog of war; to see the shot hit the ocean. The tears of that ocean came this morning in the shower; a random moment on an unexpected day.

I write this message not for the pain of right now; not even in the mourning of hope. I must drag myself out of this void, crippled as I am. I must get back to shore and find a way back up that precipice. This is the real physical pain part. Tonight I will likely be nearly absent of mind entirely, this bike ride will hurt. It is the only empirical bootstrap I've got to get me back to that rock. I feel like there is no way I should ride; no way I could ride when I hurt like this. I know it will hurt like hell and for days. Only with a return to my daily routine will I improve with time and stop this spiral. I also must overcome the fear of the half mile near the start and end of my route. The cars; knowing one street over is where it all happened, where the pain started.

To some mysterious ghost I must believe in; my visage of hope: I still love you enough to not come and find you; to shield you from sharing my hell. I still hope for a day of escape from my prison bed island. To be the person I imagine; to be free; to love you.