Good old Timehop. For those of you who don’t know, Timehop is an app that pulls posts and photos from social media sites and your phone’s photo album in order to remind you of what you did this time last year, two years ago, three years ago etc. This morning it showed me a picture of my 2nd broken leg, which occurred 2 years ago. Said leg is, thankfully, now healed and only occasionally limpy and crap (and hopeless at descending stairs) and has left behind only a fading scar and a large piece of metal in its wake. It got me thinking though, about what life was like at the time I broke the leg, and inevitably to comparing it to what life is like now.
The Break was actually only the second time in my life that I’d broken a bone, and it happened, as fate would decree, almost exactly 3 weeks after my first broken bone had healed. It wasn’t a good year. I’d broken my foot in January whilst taking Christmas decorations down, having absentmindedly leant on something I knew wouldn’t take my weight. Although it hurt, a lot, it wasn’t too much of a hindrance as I was given one of those 1980s Robocop-looking boots to wear instead of a cast, and could hop about the house on crutches slowly, but fairly effectively, so I was able to work from home. The second break was much worse. I fell over in a pub and ruined my left ankle, one of the bones cutting through the ligament as it snapped, and was therefore confined to a cast for 6 weeks and then Roboboot for a further 6. Working from home was no longer an option as it took me 15 minutes to get from one end of the flat to another (and it was a very small flat). So I sat at home. For 6 weeks. On my own. Watching daytime TV, napping and drinking too much, and it was nowhere near as fun as it sounds. During this time, my partner and his parents bought the flat in which we currently live. Unfortunately, as I was unable to come along and view it, I had only seen it in pictures until 1 week before we moved in! Thankfully he’d made an awesome choice.
It wasn’t the break though that got me thinking, not really, it was what caused it and how I dealt with it. Although the first break was innocent enough, an accidental and sober fall, the second was not. I was, as previously mentioned, in a pub at the time, but it took me a long time to admit to myself exactly what had happened and why.
On the night in question I had gone to a pub opposite my office with a colleague. We had started with a bottle of wine, and then another, and when the time came for a third (at my suggestion), I decided the prices in the pub were too steep and I would go out and buy my own from Sainsbury’s. Not wanting to find myself short I bought two bottles. Thankfully, at that point my friend suggested that we have dinner as we’d previously eaten around 1pm and it was now at least 8pm. Also, she was nearing her limit for wine and I hadn’t really recognised that I drank most of the third bottle myself. The reason I didn’t feel too drunk is that I would regularly drink 4 bottles of wine at a weekend. My alcohol tolerance was a hard-won and prized possession, it was also a growing inconvenience as it took more and more to get me to the oblivion that I favoured at least once a week.
Feeling in need of some distraction from the onslaught of wine, my friend got up to dance. I followed, but in the way that a poorly coordinated hippo follows a gazelle onto the dancefloor. As hippos and gazelles are known to do in their natural habitats. As she bopped gracefully around I took one step backwards, fell against some steps and destroyed my ankle. This made the absolute night of the gentlemen sitting at a nearby table whose previous sniggers at the hippo/gazelle situation were eclipsed as they exploded with joy at seeing the fat one fall over. They didn’t stop laughing when it became apparent I was injured, in fact, one of them got up, went to our table and went through our handbags. A comment about the addition of insult to injury seems redundant here. We were informed of this development by a nearby girl, at the same time that the bouncer was demanding that I get up as I “can’t sit there”. As if my sitting, crying and clutching my leg, was a choice I had made to spite him.
My friend had to go and rescue our belongings while I demonstrated my absolute inability to get up. Thankfully, there were two people in attendance that night who weren’t complete pricks. They helped me up and supported me outside and into the taxi they’d helped my friend to call. Upon arriving at the hospital I, Hippo, was further humiliated by Gazelle having to heft me up and interminable ramp in a poorly-designed wheelchair. Thank God she was an exercise-enthusiast. My main concern on arriving at the hospital was for no one to guess I was drunk. For this reason I gave the unopened bottle of wine in my handbag to my newly-arrived boyfriend as Gazelle helped me apply lipstick – priorities are important after all. My cause wasn’t helped by the staff giving me gas and air. I was as high as a kite when they finally came in to reposition my bone, which is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds. I was then brought crashing to Earth when they told me I’d have to stay in to be operated on, but still managed to laugh heartily when they drew a massive arrow on my leg pointing the equally massive cast, to guard against confusion. Bathing in bed with a bowl of soapy water was not the highlight of my day. Refusing point blank to put on a pair of paper knickers under my insubstantial gown kind of was. There’s something very comforting about retaining your own underwear in a time of crisis.
For most people, the 5 days in hospital, 6 weeks off work, indignity of having a wash on the side of the bath with a plastic mac tied round your thigh, necessity to hang a bag around your neck in order to gather food and supplies from around the house whilst on crutches, lack of access to the outdoors and total reduction in social life, would have been humbling enough to remind them of their gigantic idiocy, of the fact that drinking was not as important as leg-use, that no amount of booze is worth that much pain, and that there had to be a serious underlying problem for that situation to ever have occurred in the first place. Oh, but not me, no, I’m far too cool for that.
It actually took another year for me to recognise the problem. Once recognised it took me a month to quit drinking. It took another 2 to understand that there were massive, gaping problems hiding underneath and that alcoholism was only ever a symptom. I didn’t even realise it when I passed out on a tube and was awoken by an unknown man who tried to take me home. He succeeded in taking my bags home as I scarpered at the next station whilst he was still carrying them. Surprisingly, it turns out that he wasn’t the burly, leery, potential rapist I remembered him being, but was in fact actually the nicest person in the world who had genuinely been trying to assist me. I found this out the following morning when he contacted me over Facebook, having first contacted 4 other people who turned out not to be me, in order to check on my wellbeing and return my completely undisturbed bags to me, complete with credit cards which I’d thoughtfully cancelled before checking Facebook.
Some lessons are hard to learn. Some are impossible to learn on your own and require outside help and the expertise of a professional. Once learned though, they’re unforgettable. Once I’d accepted that alcohol was the cause of my broken leg, that addiction was the cause of my alcoholism and that addiction had taken over every single part of my life. Once I’d been encouraged out of my job due to mental illness, once I’d found myself at a rock bottom that exists leagues below the one I’d previously discovered 4 years earlier, once I’d threatened my relationship, only then did I learn to take responsibility for my actions, to allow myself to feel shame, to really feel it, and to deal with it. I kept telling myself that other people would have got it. But then I realised that other people probably wouldn’t have found themselves in that position in the first place. Now I get it, now I am humbled, and ashamed and penitent. This was a crippling feeling at first, but now it’s a gentle reminder of how far I’ve come. Next month will mark my 1st anniversary of sobriety, I have broken no further bones and passed out on zero tubes. I know this is a huge temptation of fate, but I don’t actually feel that I could ever find myself in that place again, because there isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t understand exactly how it happened and why it was my fault.