Page 4 of The Nanny Game Plan
I should go home.
Now.
Home is the smart choice.
These days, home isalwaysthe smart choice.
At home, if my pain spikes or my leg gives out or my newly volatile emotions leak down my face, I have resources. Home is where medicine and my comfy bed and my emotional-support ice cream live. At home, alone in my room, I can cuddle my stuffed squirrel and feel sorry for myself without anyone asking me “what’s wrong?” or telling me it’s okay to “let my feelings out,” when they reallydon’twant me to let my feelings out.
My feelings about the accident are upsetting, off-putting, and messy as fuck.
No one likes the girl who’s messy as fuck.
So, I conceal how messy I am when I can, and hide at home when I can’t.
Presently, around seventy-five percent of my free time is spent puttering around in my room or soaking in the bathtub until my fingers prune like alien worms.
Andthatshould tell you everything you need to know about the pathetic state of my life.
Ever since that truck slammed into the driver’s side of my car last October, “hide at home and attempt to recover from how hard it is to exist” has become my entire personality. I have a titanium rod in my leg, a plate in my arm, a two-inch scar on my cheek that’s “healing beautifully,” but is still a two-inchscarI didn’t have before, and a running list of things I can no longer do.
A list that includes but is not limited to?—
Play bass for more than forty minutes at a time.
Walk without a cane.
Use my sewing machine without pain.
Take a shower without pain.
Take a walk without pain.
Sit on the couch without pain.
