Doctor's Orders

It happened two weeks ago today.  I injured myself pole dancing.  Which doesn't happen frequently, but it doesn't happen infrequently either.  So I wasn't real concerned when I couldn't walk without limping.  I just pulled a muscle in my calf, that's all.  I'd simply lay off the work outs, take it easy, do some gentle stretching and hot tub therapy.  I mean if I have to.  You know, for my health and all.

The thing is, I don't rest well.  Because working out my body also works the wonkiness out of my mind.  And trust me, my mind is extremely wonky.  I'm already excessively self deprecating and perfectionistic as it is.  Mix that with some recent rejection my writing received (you'd think I'd be used to it by now but, rejection doesn't get easier) and it was the perfect storm.  And I got dark and depressed.

Which explains why a week after the original injury with my limp nearly gone, but not quite, I got back on the pole.  To self medicate.  I can pole dance without using my left leg, I deluded myself.  Bam!  I accidentally hit my injured leg on the pole resulting in a shooting pain that left me temporarily immobilized, shouting expletives.  Which is always extremely therapeutic.  But, then I was right back to exactly where I started the week before.  With an ache in my calf, hobbling along slowly with a limp.  Dammit!

I'd have to see the doctor. 

I hate going to the doctor.  And I think it's mutual.  Because I'm a terrible patient.  And my doctor knows I'm headstrong and I'm not going to do what he says anyway.  Because I sleep with him.   Which does get me free health care.  But, since I helped put him through med school when we were first married nearly 25 years ago, it all balances out.  Unless he still owes me.  Either way, my preferred method of staying healthy is denial.  I like to ignore health issues and hope they'll go away.  Or just assume I'm going to die from whatever fatal disease I likely have.  It could go either way really.  And sometimes both.

So, between the laundry and completing paperwork to refinance our mortgage, I let him examine my calf.  After which he told me I tore a muscle.  Dammit!  What the hell do you do for a torn muscle anyway?  That's when he printed out the treatment plan and handed it to me.  Because he knows I'm more likely to do what I'm supposed to if he doesn't actually tell me what to do.  Not that I think he doesn't know what he's talking about, but because I know he's right and I just don't want to hear it.  Let alone do it.   

TORN CALF MUSCLE TREATMENT PLAN:  

No exercise or stretching.  Nooooooooooooooooo!

No walking downhill.   OK, this is impossible in Colorado.

Ice 4 times a day for 20 minutes.  I prefer heat actually. 

Ibuprofen for pain.  I don't like taking medicine.

Time to heal:  4-6 weeks.  No effing way!

The thing is, I know I'm only hurting myself.  I get it.  But, I'm kinda put in a position of choosing either what's best for my mind or what's best for my body.  What's worse, the cure (exercise) or the disease (anxiety/depression)?  So, I'm just going to do what I always do; consider these doctor's suggestions instead of doctor's orders and make my own treatment plan that works for me.  And hope for the best.