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In the week since the accident, I have not allowed myself to feel much. Initially, I was in clinical shock. I remember shaking so violently on the ambulence that the paramedic had a hard time understanding the answers I was giving him. In the days that followed, I would let very little emotion pass, not willing to let coworkers that were still in the early stages of getting to know me see that baser side--that simpler raw emotion. Each night would be spent at the hospital, putting on a brave face for my friend, and using every ounce of energy to not wince at the pain I was feeling. I kept reminding myself--she was hurting far worse than I. When I arrived home, I was feeling only utter exhaustion and pain. I fell immediately into bed and let sleep consume them both. Coworkers needed me capable and friends needed me strong. In the week since the accident, I have not allowed myself to feel much.
But I have been living on edge. Uncharacteristically, I'm startled easily and have had trouble sleeping. It's been hard to find a position that doesn't hurt, and the sleep I do get is troubled with nightmares and falling dreams that jerk me awake.
On Sunday I went to the beach with some friends. I had to sit on the sidelines and watch them play volleyball without me, which was tough, but I'd brought a book to distract myself. Not long after I'd settled down to read it, a week of not dealing with trauma caught up with me.
I vaguely remember hearing voices shout out laughing warnings, but I was engrossed and didn't really pay attention. So when a volleyball came out of absolutely nowhere and landed hard on my hands, knocking the book away from me and into the sand, I was caught completely unawares. And aside from the quick jerk of pain from my injured arm, it had not just startled me, but it had scared me. And I lost it.
I wanted to get up and run but I couldn't. I could only sit there, terrified and sobbing. I was crying as quietly as I could--these people, with the exception of Rave, who was also in the accident, had no idea what I'd been through and would find it odd, at the least, that this girl sitting on the sidelines would be sobbing over the fact that her book had been knocked to the ground by a ball.
The rest of the day was never quite right. I was not prepared to be feeling the things I was feeling, and I still think it bizarre--a girl who has been around flying volleyballs all her life--could feel such abject terror at something that's happened to her a hundred times before.
Eventually when I made it home, I tried to let more out, tried to make myself release, but wasn't very successful. I finally called a friend, relayed the story and cried some more, and feel a little better because of it.
I can only hope, as days pass, that I allow myself to feel a little bit more, and in that feeling, perhaps also begin to heal.
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