Guilt

This last year has been the worst year of my health in a long time. It started when I developed plantar fasciitis in February and hasn't really let up since. Here's a depressing recap (most of which is covered in previous posts, but just in case you forgot...):

Once I stopped running and had to cut back on biking things just spiraled out of control. I crashed my bike which ended up banging up my knee more than I thought. Then I pulled this and strained that and had a long-running knee issue. I simultaneously fractured my foot and sprained my ankle in the summer. I rang in the new year year with impressively horrible back spasms. The lead up to this summer hasn't been much better. Chronic knee pain flares up every now and again. But, I'm feeling better (I tell myself), so I have started leisurely walking to slowly work back up to jogging—which has lead to foot pain. When I ride my bike more than 20 minutes my toes go numb. I'm terrified to lower my riding position down to a more aggressive angle lest I anger the back spasm gods. And I've gained back nearly every pound I've lost over the last three years of hard work and exercise. This last week my knee pain has been so bad that I've caught myself letting escape involuntary vocal whimpers.

I think you'd be surprised if I haven't had some pretty awesome spells of exercise-less induced depression around the whole thing.

And I want to complain. I want to be vocal and bitter and angry and have my friends nod sympathetically and not necessarily offer suggestions but just listen to me.

But I can't.

Because in doing so, I'd be the biggest jerk in the entire world.

Why? In October one of my good friends was biking to work and was t-boned by an SUV when the driver ran a stop sign. In addition to the usual road rash, she broke both wrists and her knee. Getting back on the bike has been a painful challenge every step of the way. She has had ups and downs, and hope and depression. She's had physical therapy and surgeries. And more surgeries. And lots of narcotics. And through it all she has put on a brave face. But she's depressed. And she should be. She was doing nothing wrong and her quality of life was stolen from her in one brief moment because some lady couldn't pause at a stop sign long enough to look both ways before crossing a 5-lane street. She's had to watch friends keep riding and others take up racing. Right after she was hit I finally got my new cross bike and took up cyclocross racing—something we had been headed towards together. And, now summer is here and she just went through another round of surgery. I think it is completely safe to say that her situation is orders of magnitude worse than mine.

But, despite the perspective that should (and occasionally does) bring, I still can't do the things I was able to do 18 months ago.

But I can't complain. I have it way better than my friend. And, thus, my frustration and depression is unjust and shouldn't be mentioned.

I have another friend who sometimes asks me how I'm feeling about what's going on with myself and all I can say is, "It sucks, but I feel guilty if I complain," and then I try to not complain. I appreciate her asking, but I worry that she's judging me.

I suppose it doesn't help that I'm pushing myself to be more active than I probably should be, so it doesn't appear that things are as bad as they really are. But I know if I become sedentary I'll just slip back into a dark place, and I can't go there again.

So, I push on. I grit my teeth (both figuratively and literally sometimes) and do things I probably oughtn't. And I brush it off. And, if anyone asks, I'm doing ok. Still a little achy, but ok.

And I swallow my bitterness and frustration and complaints. Because all of that isn't nearly as bad as the guilt I have to live with when I compare.