I Want to Tell My Own Story

After there the driver hit me, there were times when I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and lick my wounds – be alone, be dead, it didn’t matter. It hurt in ways that I can never begin to describe to those who have never experienced that kind of injury. I needed time to make sense of it all, to figure out how to deal with the debilitating pain, the mental agony and the overwhelming, visceral fear of the unknown. I had put out on social media what had occurred, and therefore had opened up the conversation for the regular “Praying for you,” “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and (my favorite) “You’ll be back!”. But sometimes, I wish I hadn’t, because maybe deep down I was seeking attention, and that seems shameful.

What also happened on social media was that a couple of people started using my crash as a platform for themselves. I’m not talking about the article put out by local journalist, Dave Bangert – his article was carefully, tactfully handled with the upmost sensitivity and honesty that was required for the topic. The social media sharing of that article did not disturb me, either. I say this to disclaim against people fearing that they offended me in some way, and, really, it’s the people who are the first to retrospectively examine what they said or what they shared who are least likely to ever offend me.

What really took me aback were the few instances where someone would write about my crash and make it about them. What really made me sad was the one that described that day’s happenings from her own ride’s perspective, and that’s fair, but kept me & our relationship at such an arm’s length, you’d have thought we were merely acquaintances and not old friends. 

Look, I get that, in living in a world dominated by social media, and the push to make as many “friends” and get as many “likes” as possible, means that we limit our word count, or reduce our connections to people out of convenience. I get that athletes are trying to build social media presence for sponsorships, discounts, inspiration and for self-validation. I also get that people need a way to process things that have happened around them, and to a degree, I get it. 

Maybe it’s like our generation asking each other where we were when the first plane struck the first tower at the World Trade Center*.  I don’t think that the hundreds of thousands of people directly affected by that day gives a shit what you were doing or how you felt.

But, bitches, I don’t care to hear about the why these people chose to write like that about me. What it felt like was that you were capitalizing on an excruciating time – at my expense. What it felt like was that you made my tragedy about you. While you were being applauded for being brave, or being a good writer, or validation came from people who I have never fucking met, I was struggling with learning how to walk again; I hadn’t even had a chance to really put into words what happened. Other than “Fuck, shit, balls.”

You know what was the most helpful? My husband taking very seriously the vows, “in sickness and in health.” My sister answering the phone, listening to me cry and rage and cry. The Harmons, taking in Lily for a couple of days so that I did not have to feel overwhelmed with her unending doggy joy. Dean and Kay checking on me for the weeks following, and the offers from dozens of my cycling family for prepped meals and cleaning crews. The care packages and encouraging notes sent by friends, some of which revealed their own struggles with physical injuries and ailments. Also, the times that friends just gave me a chance to rage into a vacuumed space.

I will never, ever forget the night that I was hanging out at Courtney & Ashli’s house. I had my feet up the wall, trying to get my spine to just stretch back out a wee bit from the gravity of the day. Courtney, who has a background in both sports physiology & psychology, just asked a question. And as a deeply, deeply empathetic person, she started navigating the what happened that day in ways that others hadn’t. With the upmost sensitivity, she then just asked me what I wanted to do… and she was just fine letting me talk. It was as if I was picking my way along a frozen river, prodding along the ice, finding the thin shelves & the cracks & and questionable way, until I could find my way to the other side.

It was that day that I realized I needed to start speaking into existence what had happened. I needed to be open about the physical and mental pain, and how it still was affecting me weeks later. I needed to reopen my “open book” policy. But I needed to do it on my own terms, and I needed to be honest with myself as well as other people. I want to tell my own story, without apology, without making jokes and without negotiation.

* I was in 10^th grade, taking my ISTEP test.