When I was younger, I got to go to the "Beach Club" with my friends who had the luxury of being members during the hot summer days. It was every kid's dream, parent's escape, and tween's grounds for underwater funny business. There were two levels, two pools, a giant grill, fitness center, and stairs that led to the beach down below. Yes, life was rough.

One of my favorite things to do at the "Beach Club" was diving board jumps. We would eagerly line up to climb the ladder to the rusty blue board with images of The Sandlot dancing in our heads and present our best trick for the slew of friends treading water and clinging on to the lane ropes down below. Tricks would range from pencil dives to cannonballs to flips. When you emerged from the plunge, your audience would each "rate" you on a scale from 1-10. We had clearly been exposed to the Olympics around this time, giving 6.4s, reasons for 10s, and so much more. Everyone wanted a 10.

I couldn't have been older than 7 or 8 during these summer days, but my understanding of the scale was likely truer that it has become. Whether that is because it is tainted or a tougher rank, I'm not sure. It was clear that a 10 was the ultimate. If I came out and got a 7, I was going to do my next jump better and bigger than the last. I was going to improve to get to the top. The 7 was just not good enough. 

These days, it's tougher to remember this.

Sometimes we allow ourselves to sustain a "7" just to avoid a 4 - or worse, a 0. If it's goodenoughfornow, then why bother risking something that might be worse? Too painful. Too daunting. Too scary.

I'm guilty of sitting at a 7 now and then. During my first recover from my ACL tear and proceeding surgery, I lost steam quickly. I was aggravated, unprepared, and insecure in so many ways. I was so eager to be part of social activities that I neglected much of my protocol. I walked on the beach too soon, went out "dancing," and joined in activities that caused some pain, but not enough to re-damage me fully. I didn't want to sit out on the sidelines. I didn't want to feel outcast or different or limited. I didn't want to feel like a 0 or a 4. So I settled for a 7.

Nothing was terrible, but I never got great again. I couldn't truly run without discomfort. I stopped going to physical therapy. I stopped identifying as someone who was recovering from an injury and instead started identifying as someone who was fine with just a hint of an old injury - aka a "7."

And then I had my 2nd surgery. We can go ahead and call that a 0.

I wasn't perfect the 2nd time around, but I was better. I followed protocol, eased myself into things, and self-pitied myself for being a lousy 0 when I had just been a 7, which seemed much more exciting at this time. Eventually, I healed well, got my strength, speed, and skinny back, and felt on top of the world. Yes, the elephant in the text is that I have obviously been writing about my 3rd knee surgery, but the point is, you can't have a 10 without having a 0. Literally.

My friend and I discussed this tonight on a more personal level. About shooting high rather than settling at just ok. Have you ever had a relationship that you were constantly validating to yourself? Like, "wow, last Saturday was so much fun, I'm completely unphased that I haven't heard a peep in 5 days. It's totally fine." Except it's not. Saturday was a 10 and today is a 4. You're averaging somewhere in the 7 range. And chances are, you allow it to continue. I know I have before. The low days hurt, so you're constantly feigning for the high days, but the inconsistencies never allow you a full 10 for any sustainable period. Is it worth giving those small victories up? Most often, it doesn't seem like that.

But the answer is yes. We are hypothetically one non-recovered ACL at 70% function because we're unwilling to start back and ground zero. We don't want to build the wall brick by brick. We want one that stands on its own, whether or not it will hold up forever.

Whether validating a relationship or my prideful knees, the answer is to always work toward the 10. I don't want to be goodenoughfornow. I want to be consistently amazing. Sometimes the dull pain of a 7 seems tolerable enough because the sharp pain of a lesser number is too much to bear. Having experienced some low number moments myself, I thought I would share some of the things that they taught me that 7s never could have.

• Humility. Humility has been ground zero. It has taught me that I'm not the best, that luck doesn't cut it, and that I constantly have a lot to learn. The 7 of humility is embarrassment. It's enough to make us want to run away from the feeling, but temporary enough to put a band-aid over it and pretend it never happened. One is a life lesson. One is a fleeting discomfort.
• Honesty. Honesty, ironically, always seems to be clouded by doubt. Falling down to a zero means being honest with myself. It has made me own my mistakes, apologize to others, and adjust certain lifestyle choices. The liken to Zero's honesty is Seven's gossip. You allow others to be in on a secret, but only at the expense of questioning your own motives and intentions...while the information shared may be true, the dull reminder of your betrayal keeps you from claiming virtue.
• Modeling. No, I'm not talking about hitting the catwalk or the magazine. Hello people - have you SEEN the scars on my knees?! (Not to mention the distinct lack of inches and a few other notable attributes). I'm talking about role modeling. Living at a zero has reminded me that having and being a role model is crucial. I have a few role models - in different areas of my life. My mother has always been my number one, and being at a zero has allowed me to need her and to recognize the greatness in her that I want to also exude. Seven forgets to model and simply gloats. Gloating usually comes from lack of self-esteem; whether you're gloating about your relationship or your accomplishments, chances are, you're just trying to convince yourself to numb the small tingle of a 7.
• Self affirming. This is my achilles heel when it comes to feeling the sharp, constant poke of a 0. I'm down here for a reason. I'm not good enough. Pretty enough. Fun enough. I'm weak or stupid or weird. I'm a zero. The numbers don't climb over night. You want the highs to be inevitable, but until then, it's gut-wrenching. Believe me, my 0s feel the same. How can I get back up? Recover? Gain ground? Low-rated living forces you, and only you, to move up the rankings one positive self-affirmation at a time. It's not easy to say nice things about yourself when the darkness is harsh, but it pushes you to appreciate everything you are, from 0 to 10. Seven simply non-mentions character flaws, rather than works hard in order to rebuild. Seven is cowardly. Zero is appropriately the hero.

Where am I currently on the self-actualized knee-recovery scale? I'm probably at a solid 6. Maybe my 6 is your 4, or even your 9. Who knows? No, a 6 does not feel like a 10, and neither did a 2 or a 4. But a hard-earned big 1-0 is going to beat settling for a sustained 7. I know this.

Good enough is never actually good enough. Sometimes we have to give up the 7, sink down to our 0, and climb the lone, long road to a 10. The journey is rough, but the destination is about as great as if a pain-free run got your there in the first place :-). 

Being funny is being so many other things. It's being smart, quick-witted, balanced, and confident. Being funny at the right moments means being mindful of others' sensitivity, perception, and well-being. Funny means being aware of one's surroundings, literally and in the context of society as a whole. 

Funny is awesome. I can't live without funny.

But sometimes, funny is one big band-aid.

How many of our big screen humor hunks have tragic lives? How often have we been surprised at the insurmountable deaths of comedians and the like? Funny is often the only way we can avoid the other, less simplistic emotions. 

This isn't always the case. In my own life, humor is likely always evident in some context, but not necessarily out of sadness. I like sarcasm, rhyme format, and story-telling - funny has an equal opportunity pathway in my eyes - as long as it isn't destructive, bring it on! So I started writing this blog post - allegedly, as a funny blog post. It was about how the physical therapy aides have this huge issue with wrapping ice packs on knees. They can't seem to get it right, yet no one wants to admit to one another that they can't do it because in the 5 months I've been getting ice wrapped on my knee, there has NEVER been a consistent formula. Sometimes the plastic goes on first, wraps one ice pack on top, then figure eights to another pack on the bottom. Sometimes they have me help (I wait for them to ask, more out of entertainment than as stubbornness). One time the guy did such a bad job, I stood up and it slipped right off. He pretended not to notice and said "have a good day!"

It's funny.

But that would have been my band-aid blog.

The truth is, I'm pretty scared.

I've been having some pain the last week. Remember how I wasn't cleared to run? Well, my surgeon said otherwise last Monday. Last Tuesday, I had my moment. I strapped my long lost friend THEBRACE on, hopped on the treadmill, and gave it my best 3 minutes.

It hurt. It felt wobbly. It was no where near my Forrest Gump moment. I wasn't ready. When it's your third go around, you know better for these things.

I took off the brace and succumbed back to the spin bike, relaying the sad truth to my PT the next morning, who shook her head as she dug deep into my tightened muscles. I couldn't have taken more than 100 running paces, but I knew I wasn't actually ready. 

And then I'm not sure what happened. Things felt good - things like jumping jacks and burpees. Then things felt tight. So tight, my calf wore the badge of knuckle bruises. By Friday, things weren't getting better. My physical therapist had the disappointed face on, my leg throbbed, and my knee was more swollen that it had been in some time. I took Saturday off from the gym, but things just weren't going back to normal.

Sunday felt a little better, so I gave the gym another go.

There wasn't an "oh no" moment. I didn't have a fall, a slip up, or a disaster. But by the end of the weekend, my discomfort started to turn to actual fear.

As I sat and tried to get cozy in the theater last night, however, cringing at Bradley Cooper's depiction of the American Sniper, my mind started spinning. I was massaging my knee and hit a spot that made me jump. I know that spot. I know that jump.

Suddenly everything seemed to click - the tightness, the swelling, the area of pain.

Shit. 

My meniscus. 

My meniscus is the red-headed stepchild in my slew of surgeries because the ACL has always gotten all of the attention. The poor little bugger has also gone through repair and recovery too though. 

I've never really given a second thought to tearing or re-tearing my meniscus. It's just kind of this secondary injury that floats alongside the real one. I don't even know it without the ACL tear. So big deal, right?

Unfortunately, my physical therapist mirrors my concerns, and for once, I even detected a little bit of sympathy in her voice. I don't think anyone wants their work to go unappreciated - and she works hard to keep me healthy. 

The weird thing about this mindset is that I'm really unsure of things. I knew when I tore my ACL. I was positive. I knew what recovery was like. Did I re-tear my meniscus? I wouldn't be surprised with either answer. So now, I sit. Not for long, but long enough to hope for the best and expect the worst. It crossed my mind to just leave this seemingly short moment of fear out - to talk about the yes I tore, or no I didn't tear result - not this preceding scaredy cat syndrome. But what would be the truth in that?

I'm mad at myself for being fearful, but I figure I'll cop to it before I reach back out and grab the shield and armor of humor to deflect whatever happens next. In the meantime, I'll have plenty of ice-wrapped knees to keep me smiling and thoroughly entertained. We shall see what tomorrow holds!

I go to physical therapy so often, it feels like visiting a second home. I know all the familiar faces, have the routine down, and it just feels like an obligatory part of my week. I am happy to report this week proved to be another promising one. I jumped back into physical activity on my same, limited basis, but enjoyed being relatively pain free throughout the process. The novelty of appreciation for my body was back. This also meant I hit a new phase in PT. 

By new phase, I mean my exercises elaborated and/or changed completely. That's a really dialed-down way of saying it got real in Physical Therapy this last week. My one legged squats on the machine were upped 10-fold. My quad was shaking trying to handle the weight. I broke a sweat with whatsherfacenewgirl, and I felt extremely fatigued and tired. But I didn't feel hurt. Every time the girl would ask me how each exercise felt I had conflicting feelings of wanting to be like "What do You think," and smiling and hugging her. It was hard. Really hard. But I did it. I finally feel like I'm moving forward and toward the end game.

Halfway through my therapeutic torture chamber, I was forced to balance on the "involved" leg and slowly lower myself down to chair level, all while not letting my knee slide inward or outward. I'm sure that's a simple process for all you healthy-kneed individuals, but this took a crazy amount of dedication and concentration for me. I chose to pick a spot to stare at as I silently counted down the repetitions while good ole' whatsherfacenewgirl stood and silently clapped me along. The spot I chose to stare at seemed to do the same thing back at me. It was the base of the cable machine and in big, bold letters, simply read "Patent Pending."

Hm. No really. Hmmmm. Like the patent of that cable machine? It's in the process of being designated as a non-replicate? Which part of it? I've seen tons of machines like this. Are they in the same, pending boat? I kept my eyes glued to the spot as I lowered, lifted, and kept balance. Patent Pending. 

Kind of like me.

My healing process and full recovery is in process, but it hasn't been fully applied yet. The issue of acceptance is not quite there. But the general public is aware that the patent could be issued in the near future. I am a figurative version of this mind-numbing expression that is stamped on the bottom of a metal contraption that is luring me in and out of my own process. You with me here? Call it a stretch, but I am going to stay with this analogous measurement. 

I have never invented anything, so I don't know all of the legal processes that go with obtaining a patent, but I have lived through many versions of the concept. Even relationships. All sorts - friendships, romantic relationships, or professional relationships. Isn't there always kind of a patent pending? A period of time before things are either real or rejected? When do you go from dating to a relationship? Or to nothing? When do you go from acquaintances to BFFs? I would argue that it takes time, trust, and experimenting of sorts. Despite the fairy tale concept of love at first sight, there's a lot that goes into things becoming established. Patent Pending.

I think this also keeps things exciting. If the patent is pending, nothing has been rejected yet. You may very well have a product that is a lawful mouse trap for anyone who dare re-create it, and that feels exhilarating - even if it hasn't happened just yet. I feel the same way. As long as I'm in the recovery process, the hopes and dreams of being an athlete again, being my fullest and fastest version, still stand. No stamp of disapproval is keeping me from this. It's the bait that is dangled just close enough to keep chasing after it. It's not a big topic of discussion while still in the process - you don't want to count your chickens too soon, right? What if the patent falls through and you told everyone your product was going to be the next protected entity? My 3rd ACL recovery feels the same. I don't want to promise that I'll be back on the court/field/track because...because what if that's not the case? I'd rather silently share my small victories and smile as I put one foot in front of the other. The pending mystery is scarier than I'm willing to admit most of the time.

But that's real.

Patent Pending is paradoxical mind-warp that is hope, fear, excitement, and dread all mixed in at once. It's when dating feels amazing, but looming disaster of the pin dropping in the 50% bracket that you don't want takes away some of that enjoyments. It's when you share your first secret with your new friend and sit on the vulnerability until you get to decide if it remained safe or not. It's exposure. It's risky. It's unsure. 

But it's crazy awesome when you go from pending to patent issued. It's not perfect - there's a lot of work that comes along with this, too, of course, but it's successful. I picture taking my first running steps as if it will be this epic Forrest Gump moment where I just go and never stop. But to be honest, nothing has been like that thus far. At one point, I sat cross-legged, did a jumping jack, and squatted for the first time. I don't remember any of these moments specifically. They've all been part of the pending process. That's the thing with a patent pending - time doesn't stand still. There are still items that need to be addressed in the meantime. The end goal remains, but to just sit back and hope without working at is the biggest risk of all. I highly doubt those who are coming up with these products and applying for patents are just stopping the creation and production. The interim is important. I get that.

I don't think each victory is a big gesture. The patent pends until it is issued or abandoned. So does my recovery. I think both have a hell of a better chance with the right work though, and if I have to shakily lower myself down with a bored-but-friendly audience member, so be it. Dating doesn't become a relationship overnight the same way that an initial meeting doesn't turn into a secret-sharing slumber party. Those moments are gradual and earned. They are discovered for all of the right reasons, and my recovery stands as another pending success story. It will not be a life-defining moment. It will just be a compilation of many moments strung along to create a better feeling in the most relative sense. And then it will just be. My patent will no longer be pending and my health will represent the issuance of fortitude. It will not be a ribbon-cutting ceremony or a victory speech. It will just be a past that paid off in the long run.

And a lengthy collection of cringe-worthy blogs. It will be that as well. 

Remember that badass attitude a few months back? The night before my surgery I felt unstoppable. I just knew this recovery was going to go my way. I knew it was going to be awesome, and I knew I was going to do all the right things to get all the right places. I was not going to be dragged downward by this seemingly perpetual injury. I was going to KICK.ASS.

See what I did there? Alluded to the past tense to hint at the fact that that is not exactly what happened? Nor how I feel any more?

That's because I'm a week away from my 5 month post-op mark and 6 month injury mark. Half a year has gone by since this all happened. And I'm not kicking ass. I'm doing ok. But I'm not killing it by my standards.

My physical therapist told me I'm a good 4 to 6 weeks away from running. This will be the 3rd time I've heard that. It's not my fault. Or anyone else's. My body and muscles and patterns are just stubborn. Go figure. They can't possibly take after me. I'm not amused anymore. I don't have a bad attitude, but I don't have a badass one either. I'm frustrated. I'm inpatient. Sometimes, I'm off-putting. I always hope that I get this one aide in the physical therapy office because he's worked with me from Day 1. He knows the injury, the length of recovery, and...well, me. So when they put the "new guy" on my case, I feel bad for both of us.

"ACLmeniscus."

"3rd one."

"July."

"August."

"Football."

"Yup."

"Nope."

"The left."

Those are my answers to his questions. It's not his fault. I'm sure he's told to be personable and caring and smiley. Unfortunately for him, I'm over that nonsense. I just want to do my exercises, get stronger, and get through this. I doubt anyone is sitting in the break room discussing how great my attitude is despite how many times I've already been through this. I'm not sure why I don't respond more appropriately. Someone has to get the brunt of the emotional turmoil, right? I'm sure I make him love his job.

When my PT told me the mark had, once again, been pushed back for running, I sighed out loud, marking my first verbal implication that I was not having a good time anymore. I usually just smile, nod, and ask what else I can do to help my recovery along. "Can I hike?" I asked. 

Notagoodidea she said. That put me over the edge. I told her I was frustrated, and that this had happened after my first surgery, which led to my second surgery, and how the F am I supposed to know if I'm recovered if I have never gone more than a few months in 3.5 years without being in ACL recover mode?

She handled me with grace. She kept the tide even, told me that when I run, I'm going to run with ease and without pain. She told me I was going to get there and that I wasn't going to have to keep working this hard. And she told me that I'm doing great.

I believe her. And then, stubborn is as stubborn does, I asked if I could walk the stadium steps nearby.

She said yes, as long as I am aware of my gait and pattern when I walk downward.

SCORE.

So today, on the 3rd day of the year, I took a long walk. And then headed to the stadium steps. And then walked 10 sets. 

I was completely out of breath. It was sunny, but cold, but beautiful, and bright, and everything felt good. Did it hurt? Ya. It did a little bit. I took my time. And with that, it took me a while.

...which got me to thinking. Maybe I should savor the ride a little bit more. I know why I prefer a bootcamp style workout as opposed to a walk. It takes less time. It's efficient. Maybe I've forgotten that time is only my enemy if I make it as such. So, yes. I walked the stadiums. Very slowly and carefully. And I enjoyed myself and smiled at everyone who ran or walked by me. It wasn't that I couldn't run them, it was that I could take the time to walk them. 

I have been so hung up on getting to be able to run and forcing my way into full recovery that I've forgotten what I told myself at the beginning. To be thankful for the little victories along the way. I sat cross legged on my couch while I was drawing last night and realized I couldn't do that even 2 months ago. I took Larry up a hill and found myself focused on straightening the injured leg because I have the most awesome team of experts who have taught me what to look for and feel for in order to keep my recovery stable. Running is the symbolic pace of my recovery. I'll be ready when I'm ready, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the longer walk to get there. 

I'm not ready to run. Would it make me feel better? I would be lying if I said it wouldn't. But I can't change that right now. I can, however, change my filthy outlook and start remembering what I can do. Like take long walks. Which may even lead to some profound thoughts - or close to that. Maybe I become more inclined to enjoy the things that take longer, including my recovery instead of rushing through everything and missing everything that pops up along the way.

I'm sure I'll still have some one-word answers for those who choose to ask me the predictable questions, but maybe it's time I start finding the answers that slow down the conversation a little bit. Maybe I walk them through it rather than run away from it. 

And maybe, just maybe, I redefine badass-ness in the form of walking, not running. Afterall, if I have learned anything, patience is truly a virtue that should not be overlooked. 

Well. It's 7:15am and Larry is passed back out on the floor and my eyes are showing signs of wanting the same. But alas, we welcomed the new year in this morning.

New Year's is an interesting holiday. Growing up it was this epic night simply because I got to stay up until midnight. That WAS the party. It was outside of any other night; there were noisemakers and maybe even games, and there were hugs and kisses. It was honestly almost perfect. It wasn't about what I wore. Or drank. Or how many people were invited where. It was innocently a genuine evening of celebration.

By my teenage years it clearly became about the party. It still didn't quite matter what I wore and all that jazz, but it was an excuse to celebrate health and good fortune by risking and mangling both of those. 

And now, as an adult, it is somewhat like Valentine's Day. It exists, but it's a lot of built up expectations and hype - and that's a lot to follow through with for one small evening. It's oftentimes about wanting something, but cautiously trying to hold back your wishes for the inevitable disappointment. Have I ever had the BEST New Year's Eve of my life? TBD. 

New Year's is about who you are with and who wants to be with you, and it's about your attitude as you enter the brand spanking new year.  I think that would probably mean my blog post should be full of resolutions and positive reinforcement for my recovery, my life, and for those around me. I watched the sun come up this morning, and it was fantastic. The harbor became an endless silhouette of sailed cargo, and the cold weather made the water sparkle. So I sat down (with Larry of course), took in the beauty...and then faced some ugly truths.

I couldn't help it. That's what you do, right? You reflect, you resolve, you put your best foot forward. I do have resolutions. I'm not one of the people who doesn't believe in them. Come on - I write cheesy monologues about my beliefs and feelings - do you really think I skip out on listing betterment clauses for myself? I don't necessarily believe they need to come on the new year, but I do like to make intentions for myself. For example, remember the blender? And my push to have more vegetables every single day? That's a resolution. It just started 3 weeks before the New Year. I'm not going to tell you all of my resolutions though. Not because they're a secret, but because they just are. I am, however, going to share the ugly truths that I faced on this beautiful 2015 morning.

I've become socially lazy.


I think it would be unfair to not qualify the type of lazy I am, because I am a geterdone type person. When it comes to my social life, however, I've become lazy. And quite frankly, I've become a little fearful. I know hundreds of people my age (not an exaggeration), but have that "you don't know me" mentality a lot of the time. I'm weird. And as comfortable as I am around people, I tend to bundle up my weirdness and bask in it in the privacy of my own home. I like to do things while I sit on my couch or with my headphones in. I like to walk alone or write in the comfort of my bedroom. I like to go to movies or have coffee, but I have become more and more afraid of venturing out of my small comfort zone. I feel misunderstood and too "lazy" to explain myself. I feel comfortable with my "people," and I worry that there is a "Phantom" (read: blog post from 2 days ago) in too many of those I'm not as close with. I was minutes away from staying in last night and ringing in the New Year with netflix and a slobbery kiss. But I peeled myself off the couch, got sparkly, and spent the evening with people I really, really like. It was fun. So I'm not sure how valid my laziness in the social context is, but it is an ugly truth I've come to face.

People don't like me.


Not all people, just people. I mean, to some extent, we all know this, right? Or maybe you don't, who am I to say that? I think I've been pretty well-liked by people throughout my life, but how can I ever be sure right? Sit back, ladies and gentlemen, because there are some people out there who truly have a distaste for me. Last night, as I slurped down my diet coke and snagged some french fries at our resident brewing company before the countdown, we ran into a group of girls. A couple looked familiar, but nothing more than that. My face, however, seemed to jar deep-seeded emotions and feelings of disgust. YES! I couldn't believe it either. These girls ALL didn't like me! A couple of my friends said they were disappointed to see them hanging out with me, and I thought, me? What did I do? But it doesn't matter. They don't like me. And other people probably don't either. F*ck it. Another ugly truth.

I'm heartbroken.


Ugh. I really hesitate to use this phrase because it carries so much stigmatic stench to it. It stirs up pictures of being left at the altar and never finding "the one." A few months ago I told you that I wouldn't be blogging about certain things in my personal life because they're just that - personal. My heartbreak isn't a sad story. It isn't all-encompassing and it isn't grounds for a woeful, tear-jerking novel. But I stand by the statement that I am heartbroken. I'm heartbroken from big things and little things. I'm heartbroken for myself and for people who I care about. I'm heartbroken because I know there have been some tough times and, while the end is near, the journey sometimes hurts a little bit. One person did not break my heart. Let's not synonomize heartbreak with sadness. I think they have different meanings, and have a lot of awesome happiness, but the ugly truth is, I'm still a little heartbroken.

Sometimes I don't make my bed.


I try to. I mean in the scheme of sh*t that needs to get done every day, pulling up the covers, folding a sheet back, and fluffing some deco pillows shouldn't be so difficult. But sometimes, I don't do it. I also leave my dishes for more than a day at times. I don't own a vacuum cleaner, and instead of buying one, I borrow my neighbor's and roll it half a block and back. Sometimes I forget to eat leftovers. And then forget to throw them out. I have left the oven on over night. I sent out thank you cards way too late. The making the bed thing is really just the "it's simple, so do it" thing that just doesn't get done. It's an ugly truth. I am known to be very organized, and I think it's only fair that I admit there are many aspects in my life that are seemingly chaotic and messy. So ya. Sometimes I don't make my bed. 

I'm not as smart as I think I am.

I am smart. I have an education, I'm quick-witted, and I get things - for the most part. I have had some self-recognition this year, however, and I'm just not as smart as I think I am. I play on a trivia team every week, and, alongside my "co-captain," organized the people who would "qualify" for the team to compete. I thought about all of the information I have stored in my brain, all of the things I have read, and watched, and seen, and I then self-declared being very eligible to run the team. We have been playing for a solid 4-5 months now, and one thing has become clear - I am the weakest link. My spelling gets called out weekly, many questions are so over my head I truly can't even come up with a guess, and  I have apparently never seen a globe because I have absolutely NO idea where any geographical country, body of water, and historical sightings reside. I do, however, know the name of the dog in Peter Pan as well as the fictitious town in the show Gilmore Girls. Perhaps that knowledge is an ugly truth as well.

Sometimes I lose.


At games and sports and job applications, yes. Of course. I lose. I don't like to, and I never have, but I do. But I also lose other fights. I lose relationships that I swore I never would, and I lose myself to conversations that I have no right taking part in. I lose the ever-pressing battle of convincing people of truths that I know, and I lose respect every now and then. I lose sleep. I lose the backs of my earrings, the few tools I own, and all of my extra toothbrushes. I lose patience. Not often, but admittedly at times, I lose my temper. And finally, I lose sight of what's really important once in a while.

So yes. I have some ugly truths. I have some kinks and character flaws and faults. And today, as I start 2015, I am choosing to face the ugly truths, and I am also choosing to appreciate the beauty in each of them. It's cheesy, but it's true. I think the best resolution is just to be able to love myself for all that I am and the rest will come. Ugly truths and all. 

2015. The year of the beautiful ugly truths.

...and no knee surgeries. Please. Please. No knee surgeries.

The New Year's Hike has been deemed dangerous and regression waiting to happen by my Physical Therapist, and considering the amount of bruising and agony it has taken to get me just close to where I was before this last slip up, I am sadly, but intelligently, following her orders. There will be no New Year's Day sunrise hike for me.

I'm bummed. I really am. It's a personal tradition of mine, and it's meaningful. Over the years, I've been joined by different, special people in my life, but for me, it has always been an important celebration of being healthy. 

Wait. Is that ironic? I hike to celebrate health, yet I am deemed below the health bar to hike this year. What the...? Should I just have a gluttonous brunch and skip the sunrise and sleep in and have a seemingly "normal" New Year's Day since I can't make it? I'm not gonna lie. The thought crossed my mind.

But no. I will carry the tradition on in a slightly new form. Don't worry. For the 4 readers out there who can't seem to miss a blog episode, I will keep you ferociously updated with the change and progress in just a few short days. For now, I'm going to treat you to a little analogous, dim-witted thought.

This hike is the one time that I purposefully take time to acknowledge the self-pride I have in living a substance-free life, but I like to keep that part of me private and internally valid. It isn't a secret, it's just...mine. I am sharing about it, however, because I've drawn a parallel to my sobriety. Yes, that's a theme that many of my blogs have. The deep-seeded life lessons that are wrapped up in everyday life and can then be spit out as a reflective similarity to a torn ACL. I've done it again. Go on. Take a looksee. 

I've been very candid about the wonderful, supportive people in my life. Those who are involved specifically because of my injury, and those who are simply my "people" who are in my corner for everything. While I have not individually mentioned many hugely valid people, I have also done the social media bit. You know - when people paint a pretty picture but hide all the ugly truths. Let's be honest, (myself included) we don't post pictures and statuses and interests that don't hold some sort of attention-grabbing quality. We want likes. We want laughs. We want attention. We definitely don't, however, want to be exposed.

What if social media was a screenplay of the late night arguments at home? Or of the 14 outfits you tried on BEFORE you snapped the photo? Of your body when you don't like it? We wouldn't be so inclined to market ourselves if we couldn't filter what it is that is said, right? 

Newsflash. Blogging is the same shit. This entire thing could be a lie. Maybe I've never even torn my ACL!

Just kidding. That would be weird and tedious and downright stupid to write a blog for 6 months about an injury that sucks but doesn't exist. I hereby swear that I have, in fact, torn my ACL(s).

I have not, however, told you about the few unsupportive people in my life. I have led you to the many ups and silver linings; I have teased you with my moments of weakness, but I have not given any real indication of concrete crappiness. But alas, I have some. In the form of non-supporters. They are (for good reason) not a big part of my story, but they do exist. And they perpetuate my elementary school mindset of being bothered by not being liked by everyone, regardless of my feelings toward them. I can't stand you, but it's really important that you think I'm awesome. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

I have this person. Let's call this person Phantom. Why would I choose any other name? Just go with it. Phantom is charismatic. He is not rude or abrupt or deceitful. I wish he was, because then it wouldn't be so hard to believe that he has the power to cut so deep. But he has. And don't read too far into my pronoun use. He could of course be a she.

Now don't get me wrong. The non-support is very coy. I might miss it if I didn't know better. It is decorated with smiles and teasing and years of knowing one another so as not to be so blatant. But it is. 

Phantom likes to remind me what I'm incapable of. The obvious, yes - wakeboarding, snowboarding, contact sports, etc. He also likes to remind me that I'm a lesser version of who I used to be. "You used to be fast." "You used to be thinner." "You used to be better at __________."

These cuts don't slice all at once. They're sandwiched by friendly questions, hugs, and interest in other parts of my life. Tricky, eh?

On one hand, it makes it easier to shake off my own insecurities that Phantom voices himself because I become more inclined to want to prove him wrong, but on the other hand, depending on when the sentence strikes, my insecurities brood amongst themselves and create a whirlpool of notgoodenoughs. 

The most hurtful thing that Phantom does is exclude me. I'm cut from the invite list of sporting events, games, and activities because I am cast as physically incapable, and therefore a burden. I'm not assuming. He has actually told me this. What's funny (and by funny, I mean interesting without any humor whatsoever) is that Phantom has cast this role on me before, pre ACL tears. Yes, here is my tie-in to the sobriety clause. When I first stopped my interaction with alcohol, I made sure to include friends and family in the conversation so as not to have to deal with the pressures of young adult lifestyle every time I stepped foot into a bar. Years have passed, and it was an easy transition (well relatively speaking) because of this.

The exception? Oh, but of course. Phantom.

Phantom dislodged the idea of life sans alcohol altogether. He said it was in my head. He disagreed. Loudly. He made fun of me and compared me to other people who were more fun. He told me about functions he was hosting that I was not to attend simply because I would not be drinking. You see where I'm going right? No drink = no party. No ACL = no party.

First world problems. 

Look. I really don't wish this injury upon my worst enemy. It's a mind warp. It has enough content to it to write a blog for half of a year, and it sucks in all honesty. It's not the end of the world or anything, but it's not great for anyone involved. So I don't want Phantom to tear his ACL.

But I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind before. Not as payback. But as understanding. Tearing an ACL and readapting to life is somewhat like sobriety. You're in the same places with the same people, but the voice in the back of your head is reminding you that you're limited in some capacity. That you're different. Perhaps you're not alone, but you are different.

It's the little things. Like cheersing or dancing or drinking games. The little things that may not be comfortable or even physically possible. Don't get the two mixed up. Dancing is an activity I enjoy regardless of any special liquid involved. My knees, however, have had major timeouts along the way. It's the hard work behind closed doors. The progress that only you can truly appreciate. The number of days away from the culprit and towards health. 

Both can be mind-numbing and exhausting and difficult. Both take a lot of work, and oftentimes during inopportune periods of life. But the reward is quality of life. They both take patience and confidence and commitment. They take support and honesty and an awesome sense of humor doesn't hurt either.

And both can feel crazy shitty when people like the Phantom pick at them as character flaws. I don't think of my life choices or injuries or recovery from either as badges of honor. I just kind of think of them as part of me. I take pride in knowing what I know about myself, but that truly is the extent of it. So then why is Phantom so hard on me? I'm sure we can all list quite a few analytic terms and opinions, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that Phantom exists. And to some extent, we all have had, have, and always will have a Phantom in our life.

But how much power can a Phantom really have? Maybe he is literally a distortion of my senses. Not a non-support person, but a non-exist one. Or maybe they're just one and of the same. 

I suppose I give Phantom life. I enable the relationship because the balance of good and bad is off-kilter and confusing at times. Maybe I just want him around to see my success. How lame is that? I talked about privatizing my self-pride, yet needing that actualization to come from someone who's quite frankly kind of an asshole? Why do I do that?

Who knows? Maybe I love the challenge. Maybe it's just a toxic relationship, and I need it to appreciate all of those wonderful supportive people in my life. Maybe I know he means well, but it comes out as brooding, condescending garbage. All very possible scenarios.

For now, I keep Phantom around, but only at a safe distance. Like - a shadow floating around type of distance. You dig? 

If it hasn't become evident in my six month span of blog posting, I coach high school girls soccer. I'm currently in my 6th season, and it embodies some of the best moments, relationships, and life lessons in my adult life.

I have also experienced all 3 knee surgeries throughout my tenure at said high school. 

As an athlete growing up, no one tore their ACL. We played on the crappiest fields, on the uneven asphalt, and considered ourselves dangerously resilient and almost animalistic. I had broken bones and stitches to show for much of my competitive edge, but those were quick recoveries and not nearly as dreadful as some other possibilities. Say the word "soccer" today around a group of teenage girls, and the number one fear will be the blasted ACL. It's the threat hanging over everyone's head. It's the heartbreak that you never want to see or feel. It's the chaotic "no!" that brings me to my feet when an athlete falls with a yelp and knee grab. 

It's the injury you only really understand if you've been through it before, and the one that you are thankful for not experiencing every moment until you may or may not do so.

I mentioned this is one of my earliest blog posts, but I have a senior athlete who I never even got to see take the field under the stadium lights until her 3rd year on the varsity squad. She tore her right ACL in October of her Freshman year, and then her left in October of her Sophomore year. I was devastated for her. She didn't miss a game though, did I mention that? Even days out of surgery, she brought her ice machine and blanket and bundled up on the bench to cheer her teammates on. She wore her uniform on game days, sat at every training session, and was just as much a part of the team as the leading goal scorer.

Last year, her junior year, her dad emailed me about being superstitious of training the last week of October - two for two in resulting in torn ACLs for his daughter. I said I understood. And I did.

She trained every day that week, month, everything. Never said a word about skipping.

And then she played. She wasn't the same athlete as before, but she played. Instead of giving up, she became better in new ways. She was slower in pace, no doubt, but she was stronger and more determined in strength and game awareness. She quickly became a starter and full-game player. She also became one of my youngest heroes. I cringed every time she took a tackle or got mixed up with legs, cleats, and ball. But she bounced up and she competed. She even scored her first and only high school career goal to open up our victory against the cross-town rivalry squad. She was brilliant. 

As a coach, I try to balance my personal enjoyment of my athletes with my obligation to teach and train them. Sometimes it is easier said than done. I care about them. And I totally have favorites. How can you not? This particular athlete is one of them. She gave me just the slightest indication of the heartbreak parents must feel when their own children face adversity. And then the pride (intermixed with fear) of watching that child overcome it without any self-righteousness. 

I learned a thing or two from this kid, and channeled her during my go-around this third time.

Which is why my heart crumbled on Friday afternoon when she went down with her 3rd ACL tear as a Senior captain of her Varsity soccer team. God damn did it hurt. I knew it the minute she went down, and I bet she knew before that even. I hobbled over to her, and instead of asking anything or offering any solace, I simply grabbed her leg, and she just looked at me, nodded, and fell into a pool of misery. I waved my assistant over frantically to help me lift her off of the field, and caught enough eye contact with her parents to let them know silently. I never have parents come down. 

The game went on, and I was removed from the score, play, and possession as I watched my athlete share the same unspoken grief with her father as she had with me moments before. She grabbed hold of his neck and just hurt and sobbed. Rightfully so. We all knew what it meant, and we all knew what the future might have in store for a girl who didn't earn a second of that pain. She saw the entire game through, sniffling and icing on the sidelines as her teammates battled on. I left my coaching post to wordlessly offer my support to her parents. It felt useless. They took off after the game and I considered my own pathway of ACL tears compared to hers. There was no comparison. She got the short end of the stick, no question about it. I left her a message Saturday morning, and then went on to prepare for our next games.

And what do you know? The kid showed up. Former ACL brace, swollen knee, and street clothes. And a smile even. This girl showed up and stuck out hours worth of soccer from the bench. She cheered the team on and answered those mind-numbing questions over and over again that I know so well. I spoke to both of her parents and relayed my gratitude and appreciation for having a girl on the team such as their daughter to be such an unassuming leader and example. They seemed content and resolved that she had wanted to come to the games regardless of her situation.

I saw my competitive athletic career through. And then some. I know the course of this girl's future is changed, and I'm anxious for the day that it will become clear that this new path led to amazing things. Until then, I still feel utterly heartbroken for her and utterly ashamed of my self-pity over the past couple of weeks. I need to take a page out of my 17 year old athlete's book and remember that grace and confidence can radiate and touch some unsuspecting characters - just as hers has for me.

How do you do it, parents? How do you push your child through without shielding the truth and still remain sensitive? How do you allow them to battle through their own hurt without bothering them all the while? I applaud you for being supportive without being overbearing. You've created wonderful children, who in turn, have continued to teach other adults around them. 

I don't really have anything funny to say tonight, but it's not because I don't think there isn't any humor in the eventuality that comes from all tough situations. I do. And I think my girl does too. But I just don't have any to lurch forward throughout my seething paragraphs tonight. A humorless blog doesn't take away one's wit and funny-power just the same as a torn ACL doesn't take away one's title as an athlete. 

Don't be so harsh on this generation of kids with cell phones glued to their hands and a general lack of care for the goings on in the world. So many are so much more than that. You are what you know! And if this girl is joining the exclusive and least popular torn and triad club, I better make it known in all the right ways.

It's an oxymoron when stripped down. Two dissimilar things to make up an understood phrase. That's how I understand oxymoron at least. A storm is dangerous. It's threatening, blustery, and unpredictable. Despite the idea that it's often forcasted ahead of time, its presence is heavy nonetheless. Perfect. Well perfect is perfect. It's unattainable, but pretty and packaged and nice. So a pretty, packaged, nice descriptor for a blustery, unpredictable, and dangerous phenomenon is a bit off. Yet we get it. A perfect storm is just that. A packaged disaster.

That's how my Physical Therapist described my recovery today.

Today was the first time I felt legitimately concerned about my health when it comes to my knee. I'm 4 months out. Remember what that means? Running. Progress. Success. 

Not exactly.

As the ironic and unforgiving ACL gods would have it, I'm behind. I took my soccer team up to the mountains this past weekend, and I about toppled over when I woke up to snowfall the first morning. No, not out of shock. Yes, I am from Southern California, but Midwestern roots have allowed plenty of snow experience coupled with snowboard during life BS (before surgeries) in Cali Mountains. No, I toppled over out of pain. Major pain. I couldn't extend. Flex. Walk without a limp. Going up and down stairs was excruciating and scary. I was back at week 7. WTF had happened?! I was flying just hours before this setback. Was it the cold? My PT says yes, that's part of it. The cold and dampness are tightening up all the places in my leg that have struggled thus far, crippling my walking mobility, and creating a vicious cycle of tight muscles, weak muscles, and perpetual compensation.

After a couple weeks of spinning, light hopping, and single-legged squatting, I was back in the saddle today, working out cautiously and, quite frankly, slowly, to ease the pain searing through the front and back of my knee.



If the physical pain wasn't enough, the daggers that bit my skin from the eyes of my PT hit deep as well. She was upset. Disappointed. She asked if I hiked, ran, pushed - all the things I'm not supposed to do. No, I didn't. I was just in the cold. Well did I foam roll and stretch while in an icy hurt? No. Admittedly, I did not. Daggers. I have visible bruises on my thigh and on the side of my leg from her fingers that dug so deep into my leg today, there's a chance vital blood flow was smushed - both by physical touch and stagnant fear. I couldn't decide if it was all necessary because of my status or if it was a big FYou and punishment from her. It's the closest I've come to crying over the injury since the moment I blew it out way back in July. Nothing felt good about today.

This is where I'm supposed to have some profound movement out of my dark, dreary head and into the silver lining. Well, my blogging family, I don't have any of that crap today. I'm frustrated. I'm picky about my post-op body, brain, and boredom, and I want out. I want to be running. I want black and white answers, and I want to GTFO of the gray area that has been my recovery. I want to prove badass pre-op me right and ease through the rest of this. 

But I'm amid the perfect storm right now. Everything that has caused an issue or two has come together to perform a larger, more threatening issue. My PT looked disappointed, yes, but she also looked concerned. Up until this point she has been faithful to a fault, confident in me and my ACL's capabilities and dismissive of any small setbacks I have mentioned. We all fell flat today.

My life isn't over. Even my day isn't ruined. I'm fine. People always ask me if I pick up new hobbies during my "off season" - i.e., my recovery days. I suppose so. Or I just focus on those that involve contentment sans physical activity a little bit more. I write more. I read more. I have found myself to be more artistic than I have ever cared to give myself credit for, and I attest that to taking more time to look at my work and creations. I cook more. My (always wonderful) mother came in huge with a brand new, top-of-the-line blender for me a couple of weeks ago, and I've been juicing and making soup to flush out my bad attitude with more vegetables. Yep. I've shelved the nightly ice cream and exchanged it for daily doses of spinach and slushed carrots. It feels awesome to be honest. So I'm not sure if it's picking up new hobbies, or understanding the importance of doing what I can when things just feel a little funky. Ya, I'm fine. I'm living. I'm just disgruntled and perhaps even a smidge bitter. Keepin' it real. 

I'm scared as shit. I couldn't properly get the tone across without a four-letter word. I really am. My annual New Years Hike is barely 2 weeks away, and I may not be able to do it. The rain and cold are forecast for the rest of December, and I'm scared I'll have no control over pushing forward with my timeline to get back on the run. 

And mostly, I'm scared of not recovering fully. It's happened before. 

So now what? Put my big girl pants back on, work twice as hard, listen to my body, and get back on the badass track, right? I want to say it's easier said than done, but I don't know if that's a true statement. It's easy to do what I need to do. It's just exhausting, which ultimately means I'm just getting lazy and fed up with recovering. Once again, it's back to me. I don't know who said it, but there's a quote that goes, "There are no wrong turns, only unexpected paths." Tell that to the captain who navigates his boat into, rather than out of, the perfect storm. Or does that not matter? Is the conquest of weathering those perfect storms so gracious and qualified that there really aren't any wrong turns? Food for thought. Let's see how I handle it.

In the context of my stubborn ACL graft, I'm about to find out...