I am beyond pain, in that little space where you can't feel anything because it stopped throbbing a while ago.
That, and there's a part in my head that's wonderfully stupid and told itself that since I probably won't be back in time to go climbing on Sunday, then I really want to go today and it won't matter so much if I hurt myself, so despite Mr. Pyke's warning against such stupidity, I took a handful of aspirin to dull the ache in my arms.
I didn't get very far today, my body wasn't listening. Sure, I climbed three 5.5's, two of which I sort of sneezed my way up, and granted I wasn't able to do that my first time, but I didn't even make it a metre off the ground on anything else, and that middle 5.5? I felt something rip in my bicep and go THROB THROB THROB the way things are definitely not supposed to.
I don't want to think about the 5.6's that I made a fool of myself on, or the corner 5.5 that had me stumped from the first breath.
But there's a massive upside here, coming down off that middle ripping climb, the whole room swam with the water in my eyes and
suddenly I was elsewhere
suddenly I had a bubble
suddenly Steph, Mr. Pyke's ex-wife, and her unbelievably graceful reaching for an impossible handhold, was a vision up on the purple incline
and suddenly a handful of the things that had been plaguing me outside this work panic, didn't mean anything.
There are so many fears hiding in these corners.
There always are, and the first six weeks in every new city still have enough shadows for them to jump out of.
I know that. I've done this a hundred times. I know that.
But during that moment, when suddenly I couldn't feel anything anymore, just fatigue, dull ache
when I was just suddenly so beyond tired, physically and emotionally
I found that mouthful of peace.
WHen those thousand tiny teeth lose their sharpness.
In Morguecrawler's heartfelt email today, and in Arnon's, in Steven's always-perfectly insightful reflections of my backwards whining and complaints, in a handful of responses from the ever-magical stufflist, in a mailbox full of wonder that I dragged myself up the stairs to find
and most importantly
in this warm wash of tired
it's okay. It's all okay. I'm alive, I'm hurt, I'm healing, these things are always true and always positive somehow.
I'm scared, and fear is where I grow my courage from like the organic coffee beans that I bought at a random shop on the way home yesterday.
But it doesn't hurt anymore, for now, for the length of this breath
and that's all I need.
Everything else will fall into place if I shake it hard enough.