an audience of one

When life humbles you, there is no background noise.

It just quietly takes things away. Things you never once thought about. Walking without thinking about walking. Going out because you felt like it, and that being the whole reason.

A few months ago I was actually getting somewhere. I was meeting people again, getting closer to some of them, saying yes to things. There were events to organise and trips I’d planned with my brother. I was excited about the days ahead, which, honestly, hadn’t happened in a long time. Things were finally moving.

Then the surgery. And now I’m at home, watching everyone else’s lives just carry on.

I scroll Instagram more than I should. Someone’s at a café. Someone’s on a trip. Someone’s at an event I would’ve been at. Normal stuff. I wouldn’t have looked twice at any of it a few months ago, and now I’m jealous of people walking to the grocery store. Like, actually jealous.

Everyone’s out living and I’m in my room, watching. An audience of one.

So that’s what humbling looks like. Okay.

I measure progress in degrees of knee flexion now. I count reps. I wait for the day I can walk without thinking about every single step.

At first my quads just went to sleep. If I wanted to get out of bed, my dad had to lift my leg for me. I don’t really know how to explain what that felt like. Horrible, honestly. Being that heavy for someone.

Then one day I got down from the bed by myself. Nobody lifting anything. And I was so happy I cried. Over a bed.

It’s almost funny.

My therapist would hate how funny I find all of this.

There’s another thing, though. I wasn’t going to write about it.

There’s someone I was close to. Close enough that I know exactly what I would’ve done if this had happened to them. I wouldn’t have even thought about it, I’d have just shown up.

They never messaged.

No “how are you.” No “heard what happened.” Nothing.

When you’re a good swimmer, people tend to forget you can drown too.

I keep telling myself I get it. You can’t expect things from people, everyone’s busy, everyone’s got their own stuff going on. I know all the mature things you’re supposed to say.

But I’m lying. I do expect things from people. All the time. I just act like I don’t, because expecting things sounds needy and I’d rather be hurt than needy.

And the worst part is I wasn’t even surprised. Deep down I always knew that when the time came, they wouldn’t be here. It was the truth I knew all along. It’s just hard to digest.

I don’t even check for their message. I knew it wasn’t coming.

For the longest time I believed love was something you had to deserve. That if I cared enough, showed up enough, made myself useful enough, people would want to keep me around.

I once came across a line that said, “I always thought that one had to deserve love. I worked so hard to merit it.”

It read like something straight out of my diary. I’ve written some version of it more times than I’d like to admit.

And it’s exhausting, treating affection like it’s an achievement. Like you have to earn being remembered. And then you watch people get loved so easily, people who never seemed to try at all, and you don’t know what to do with that.

And perhaps I have welded my skin shut to a corpse and now complain about the smell.

Nobody asked me to do that, though. I chose them. I’d probably choose them again, which is the stupidest part. It’s also weirdly the part I’m least ashamed of.

How do I demand freedom from the hands that built my captivity?

Like how do you stop wanting things from someone you made important yourself? How do you stop needing something you basically handed them the power to hold back? And do I even want to stop?

I don’t know. Probably not, if I’m honest.

And then my friends showed up.

They came over and stayed for an hour or two. We laughed. Cracked stupid jokes. At some point they told me they missed me. And I don’t know, it hit me hard. Being cared for like that. I’d forgotten what it feels like from this side.

For an hour or two I wasn’t watching anybody’s life. I was in it.

I’ve loved. And I’ve been loved. (credit nims for the line)

This part of the year was supposed to look so different. There were trips, people to meet, I was going to figure my life out or at least make a little more sense of it.

I wanted character development. I did not ask for this much fucking plot.

Anyway. I can’t rush this. Trying harder doesn’t help, I’ve tried trying harder. Determination doesn’t make a knee heal faster and it doesn’t make anyone care more than they do.

I just want to get better. That’s all I’ve got.

I want to go on those trips. I want to go back to college. I want to sit with my friends and go to stupid events and make terrible decisions and laugh at things that aren’t even that funny, and I want to stop treating walking like it’s some huge deal.

I want my ordinary life back.

When I get it, will I be more careful about where I put my affection? Less willing to beg for a place in someone’s life? I hope so. I also really hope I don’t come out of this bitter. I’d rather keep caring too much than learn how to care less. That’s probably a mistake. I’ll make it anyway.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love?

I still don’t know what this is supposed to teach me. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just a knee.

For now I count reps. Some days it bends a little further than the day before.

I’ll take that.