It happened AGAIN. I tweaked my knee while attempting to lift/pull a weight during a clean and jerk. I was fatigued, and it was my last weight in a clean and jerk ladder. In actuality, it should’ve been “easy,” but like I said, I was already fatigued, really tired because it was the last part of a very long, taxing workout. But … it was not to be.
I should’ve known better. I should’ve let it go, but I wanted to lift that weight. I wanted one lift. ONE. I had enough time. I am strong enough to do it – when not fatigued. I thought I could do it once. So … I let my ego get the best of me and my left knee buckled. Yes, it’s the same injured one. Didn’t matter that I had a knee sleeve on. It was painful physically, but more than that, it was painful mentally.
I laid on the floor for a few minutes, writhing in pain, and not once did I hear my husband ask me if I was okay. Not once. The voice I needed to hear most was silent.
It’s not that he doesn’t love me. I even believe that he thought maybe I’d just get up. But it’s always been like that – he just doesn’t talk, not like that. Not when I need him the most. I got my own self up. But it got me thinking that when I need him, he may be there physically, but it’s as if he’s not there because he says nothing. I don’t know what it is. It would almost be better if he were not there.
I should be used to it, and I am to an extent, but it doesn’t mean that it isn’t hurtful. It hurts a lot. When I was delivering our children, not once was there encouragement. When I went in for surgery, not once did he say, “You’re gonna be okay.” When I’m afraid or anxious, it’s always the same, we don’t really talk about it. He’ll ask, but it’s almost half-hearted and not sincere. When running races, there is never any clapping or cheering from him. When I need him to talk to the kids, he says he does, but I’m not entirely sure that he really does. So, it’s not new, but maybe I’m just tired of it. I’ve put up with it long enough. I’ve never said a word. I probably won’t say anything. I know that he can’t read my mind. I know that if I want anything to change, I’ll have to say something or I’ll just have to suck it up and shut up.
I’m tired of hearing from others that I should know better than to try and lift weight like that. That I’m not a youngster anymore and that I should be more careful. To that I will say, this is MY life. I know exactly how old I am. I also know the risks that I take when I do the things that I do. I choose to do the things that I do because they are things I need to do. I don’t owe anyone any explanations. I don’t have to justify my choices or my behavior. It’s MY life, plain and simple. So for those who are belittling my choices, Fuck You. I wil not apologize for that.
To my silent husband, may you never know the hurt that you have instilled within me. May you know that I understand that this is how you are. I get it. It doesn’t change that it’s hurtful, and that I am hurt. And just because I don’t say anything about it, doesn’t mean that what you’re doing, what you have done is okay. It’s NOT okay. What this says to me is that you don’t care enough about me to ask, that you’re assumption that I’m okay is far from the truth. Your actions speak much louder than words. Your voice is the voice I need to hear the most, and it’s the one I never hear at all.
Maybe I shouldn’t push “publish” yet, because, well, just because maybe I’m just reacting. More like overreacting. Most would say it’s my own fault, and maybe it is. I let it get this far, but know that it’s not without trying. I can’t make him talk. I can’t make him change. I feel like a little kid again, waiting for my parents to take care of me. Waiting for my mom or dad to say something that would make the hurt a little less. Wishing that they cared enough to notice that I hurt. It’s where I learned to tolerate physical pain. It’s where I learned to just keep my mouth shut.
Physically, I know I’ll be okay. My knee will heal, just like every other wound I’ve encountered. It will heal, and the scar will remind me of how unimportant it was to anyone else, how it didn’t matter to anyone else. But it matters to me. I care. And it’s MY voice that matters to me because I care about ME. I’ve always cared about ME. I’ve always been the one to take care of me, and I will continue to be the one to do what I need to do to get ahead, to move forward, to heal. For now, my tears free fall, silent, like a salve onto the wounds of my body, and deep within to soothe the depths of my soul. Take care of you, Row.
You need you more than you need them, trust me.
Running Code 3 