A down day.
No particular reason; probably just the combination of fatigue and coming down from the adrenaline of last week taking their toll.
On days like these Mr Stumpy seems so much uglier, my situation so much more depressing and the future so much more uncertain.
I can deal with only having one foot on a day to day basis. But thinking about waking up every morning for 5 years, 10 years, 30 years and having to put on an artificial leg fills me with dread. Somewhere in the back of my mind I think I’m still expecting my foot to miraculously reappear. I still haven’t accepted fully that it’s not going to happen. I don’t think I can accept that yet – it’s just too much to cope with.
I find myself playing the odds; it’s what the therapists call decatastrophizing. What if I’d lost my foot and my knee? Wouldn’t that be worse? Yes, of course. What if a piece of shrapnel had taken my eye out? What if I’d stumbled onto another mine while trying to get to safety? The scenarios go on and on, each one more horrific than the last.
I make myself feel better by imagining the worst.
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