I'm a psycho spazz goalie

As we drove with urgency through the streets of Prince Albert at 10pm on Easter Sunday frantically searching for a store that sold Toffifee chocolates, I was convinced that I was dating a psycho spazz goalie.

It was Ev's second season with the Prince Albert Raiders and they were making a sweet play-off run.  Ev was en fuego, saving shit left and right to help the team to the Eastern Conference Final. Raw talent? Confidence? Amazing work ethic? Nope, it was the Toffifee chocolate. Unbeknownst to anyone other than his awesome girlfriend (me, duh!), Evan had convinced himself that if he consumed 1 Toffifee chocolate the night before each game, he would be unreal between the pipes, leading his team to a 'W'. Makes total sense, right? Holy shit, is this dude for real?

We finally gave up searching for that box of chocolates (why couldn't his magic candy be Smarties, dammit!) and Ev basically resigned himself to the fact that he would not play well the next day, and guess what? He didn't fricken play well. Surprise!

It was obvious to me, and Evan will certainly admit to it now - he had convinced himself that his performance on the ice was dependent on a certain "feeling" that he must possess pre-game. Whether it was the Toffifee chocolate, or the way we ended a phone conversation before a big game (Me: "Have fun tonight!" Ev: "I'll try" Me: "You will!"-  I'm not even joking, that was our "pre-game script" for 3 years!) or the quality of his pre-game nap, certain pre-game events would provoke a feeling which, in his mind, would determine whether or not he would be "on" that night. It's not rocket science - he was classically conditioned. Like Pavlov's dog, he paired certain words, events, or...chocolates with a great game, and convinced himself that the only way to repeat his performance was to replay the exact events that led up to that one great game.

Where's my Toffifee???

It was super frustrating for me to watch. I would know the night before a game whether or not Ev would play well. He was either engaged in life or way out in left field (searching for his special "feeling").  I found myself desperately trying to help him achieve that state he wanted to be in. I would try to distract him with a movie or a funny story (no hanky panky before a game people!), but Ev was already shut-down, chasing that special "I will play well" feeling that he couldn't really define.

Looking back, Evan now believes that his talent was enough to get him drafted and signed in the NHL, but his personal mind-games are what ultimately prevented him from reaching his full potential as a goalie. It's unfortunate that he wasn't mature enough to identify his issue and deal with it at the time (he was in his early 20's); however, he maintains to this day that he will never let his head interfere with accomplishing something ever again. He learned from it, I suppose. Tough lesson.

I've been thinking about Ev's hockey career lately and comparing parts of it to my recovery. I, too, am searching for a feeling...I'm waiting for that "I'm getting better!" feeling. I wake up every day and think, "Do I feel like I'm better today?" Last August when I was mending from my first surgery, I remember drinking margaritas one day and feeling fabulous. As I danced on the boat, I actually thought, "I am fixed! This BS is over!" I want that feeling back. Can you guess what I've been drinking lately? Unfortunately, margaritas don't fix knees - they just cause headaches, dammit...and fun...and bad choices. Margaritas = fun/headaches/bad choices. Does anybody  really want a margarita right now? Mmmmm.

I'm experiencing a lot of pain with weight bearing and it's difficult for me to not feel like I'm reverting back to that listless, lifeless shell of myself that laid on the couch for months at a time. I feel pain and I think "broken." I hate that feeling. I've been there many times in the last year. But I'm not broken anymore. I'm rehabilitating. I'm recovering. This pain is different. It means "healing." I need to change my thought process. A little pain is ok. Pain might mean, "back off the exercises a bit" or "whoa, kiddo, slow down!" but it doesn't have to mean "broken."

It's one thing to understand it, but it's another thing to convince yourself...especially at 3 in the morning. Who's with me? Everything sucks at 3am. For one, if you're thinking at 3am, you are not sleeping. You feel like the only person left on Earth and that's when your thoughts become negative and shitty. My doc calls this "catastrophizing." Yep, I do my best catastrophizing at 3am. "This hurts too much. I'm broken again, I just know it. I will never return to a "normal" life ever again. Oh shit, is the world really going to end on Dec 21 because that's like coming up soon....should I even buy xmas presents then, or no?" Oh man, it spirals on and on. Tell me I'm not the only one who does this at 3am??? Can we all go on twitter or something and unite? #CATASTROPHIZING@3AM

In other news, I am 100% completely addicted to Songza. I honestly feel like Songza is watching me.  Songza is seriously providing the soundtrack to my life. Songza knows. Songza knows.

"Ouch, this f'n hurts!"
Cue: Kelly Clarkson: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger

"I don't know if I can do this anymore."
Cue: Journey: Don't Stop Believin'

"I look like an old crippled woman. I just want to feel and look good again."
Cue: Justin Timberlake: I'm bringin' sexy back

"Man I hope I can get my ass back."
Cue: Sir Mix A Lot: Baby got back

"I have no fight left"
Cue: Survivor: Eye of the Tiger

I hear ya. Thanks Songza.

From, "holy sh*t I'm happy" to, "f this, walking sucks": The emotional phases of rehab

It's now day 7 of my official rehabilitation after the cartilage transplant. Although I've basically been "rehabbing" for the last year, I feel like I have so much vested in this one; hence, it feels so much more emotional. Like everything else in life, I believe that there are distinct phases - emotional phases - that one endures during the rehab process. In 7 days, I've quickly transitioned from "honeymoon phase" to "skeptical/pissy phase."

The "honeymoon phase," as it sounds, is quite blissful. In the honeymoon phase, you're just so fricken happy to have survived surgery and have reached the point where you hear, "time to start getting better!" "onward and upward!" "you are invincible!" whoohoo! Let's compare it to to something you can identify with - drinking, shall we? It's kinda like that moment (maybe 3 or 4 drinks in?) when everything and everyone around you brings you complete joy. "This is so fun! We should do this more often!" "I love you man. No, really. I love you. I'm sooo thirsty!"

The "skeptical/pissy phase" is right on "honeymoon phase's" ass. Oh don't get too happy now, sister. In this phase, you begin to wonder if the surgery actually worked. You begin to feel pain. You question each and every sensation you feel - What the hell was that? That hurt. Was that a "pop" or a "catch?" Dammit, it was a "lock" wasn't it? Stupid surgery didn't work. Oh look at you walking, like it's all easy and shit. You suck. Again, when drinking, this is the stage at which you start picking fights at the bar. "Ouch! Dude, did you just bump into me?" "What the f are you looking at? Is he looking at me?"

I've currently settled nicely into the "skeptical/pissy phase" simply because I've been met with some resistance. 1 crutch walking quickly escalated from incredibly empowering to difficult and painful. My knee feels like it's "sticking," which worries me...and yesterday when my "good" knee started doing stupid things, I actually threw my crutch 20 feet and started stringing together as many f-bombs as possible. You know you're pissed when you start inserting f-bombs into multisyllabic words (i.e) "ri-fu*&ing-diculous! This is Un-fu*%ing-believiable!" Like seriously? I was faster and more confident on 2 crutches. Perhaps I will just stick with that - walking is stupid anyways. You looking at me? Wanna go?

Lucky for you, I was so flippin excited during the honeymoon phase that I was inspired to do some writing. Here's what was going through my mind for those blissful 36 hours or so. It's insightful, it's beautiful. I picture Snow White frolicking through the meadow, bluebird on her arm, squirrels dancing at her side. It's good for me to re-read this. I obviously need to take my own advice right now, suck it up and fight. I'm anxiously awaiting the next phase, although I have no idea what it is.

The Honeymoon Phase: 
July 15: 1300- July 17: 0800 - Yay! I'm alive! I love myself! I love you! I love everyone!

Picture the joy a dog exhibits when it's owners return home after a long day. Times that joy by 100. That's me. Pure genuine happiness. How can I not be happy? After 8 long weeks of being confined to 2 sticks I am currently doing 1-crutch laps of my hallway to a sweet songza 90's playlist. Freedom!

There was a solid 8 months where I was lost. Completely and totally lost, out there, gonzos. I actually resigned myself to the idea that "fun Kirstie" was simply a wonderful phase of my life, now permanently replaced by dull, flat, sick Kirstie. "Fun Kirstie" was a missing person - a face on a milk carton. I'm betting there are a lot of people out there, who at one time or another, have felt lost. It's bound to happen. Our roles are constantly changing. We are always in transition: child, student, employee, spouse, parent. With each experience, we change. We alter the way we dress, the way we talk. Our activities and interests change. It's all good. That's part of growing up. What's so important; however, is maintaining that sense of "you." We each possess distinct characteristics that make you undeniably "you."

What a summer! 

When I think about the person I am, the person I want to be, I think back to summer of 2002. I was 23. I was turning into one of those clingy, claustrophobicky (my own word) girlfriends. I wanted Evan to spend every minute with me, doing "grownup" activities like, you know, grocery shopping and shit. Ev resisted. He had enough of that. Even though we had planned on spending the summer together in Calgary, Ev made it clear that although he wanted to continue being my boyfriend, he required some space. I was mortified... and then I was pissed. I retaliated by taking a barwenching job at Rick's Lounge, Candle Lake and proceeded to have one of the funnest summers of my life (I'm well aware that funnest is not  grammatically correct, but I honestly can't think of another word that best sums up that summer). I partied like I'd never partied before. I never passed up an invitation for a good time. I laughed, I danced (on pool tables, speakers, tables, etc), I lived it up. I maintained my faithfulness to Evan; however, I stopped worrying about trying to turn us into the couple that I thought we should be at age 23. I stopped comparing us to other couples out there, wondering if we were "keeping up." I stopped seeing myself as "Evan's girlfriend," and gave the real Kirstie a chance to shine through. I look back fondly on that summer. I was young, confident, full of energy, and fun. I exuded positive energy that seemed to draw people to me. It was also a very important event for my and Ev's relationship. When the summer was all said and done, he missed me. I missed him. Prior to that summer I had momentarily lost myself, trying to reinvent myself as "mature girlfriend ready to settle down into adulthood." I needed that summer to remember who I really was - that was the person who Evan had fallen in love with in the first place. It was a TSN turning point in the history of Evan and Kirstie Lindsay.

I'm not saying that one should just go wild, abandon all responsibilities and go on a summer-long bender (although I believe Rick has a "program" like that called "Rum therapy"?? haha). What I'm saying is, it is important to remember a time when you felt truly alive, a time when you were the best version of yourself, and then work your ass off to get back there. Whether it means making a conscious effort to improve your health, quitting that job you hate, or re-introducing yourself to your real interests/hobbies, it is so important to fight to find that missing person.

It seems to me that life constantly challenges this. Life is hard. Sometimes life sucks. It's difficult to maintain your sense of self when you are exhausted, when you are sick, or when you are overwhelmed. There's certainly days where you're just trying to keep your head above water. Sometimes It's easier to resign yourself to the idea that that person is gone... now just a part of your past. But let me tell ya, as I 1-crutch walk to The Notorious B-I-G, although I'm certainly not shooting tequila whilst doing headstands on a pool table, I can feel "fun Kirstie's" positive energy and confidence coursing through my veins and damn it feels good.

Dreams

On the night of Sunday, September 9, 2001, I had a terrible nightmare. In my dream, I was standing inside a tall, glass building. As I looked up, I saw an airplane headed straight for the building - I immediately experienced a feeling of impending doom. I knew that plane was crashing and I knew that I, and everyone in that building, would die. I awoke with a start and immediately panicked. My mom was booked to fly from Saskatoon to Edmonton on Friday, September 14 to visit me. The dream was so powerful that I felt compelled to "listen" to it. I strongly believed that my mom should not be getting on that plane.

I told my roommate and BFF Janna about my dream. I even wrote the whole thing in my journal. I couldn't get the events of that dream and the the feelings that I experienced out of my mind. On the phone with my mom, I attempted to communicate the fear I felt about her getting on that plane. After some discussion, we decided that it was just a scary dream and mom ensured me that Westjet never crashes into buildings so, although I was uneasy,  I just kinda tried to let it go.

On  the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I awoke to Janna's shocked voice as she burst into my bedroom, "Kirst, come look at the TV. It's your dream."

I'm not sure if it was an eery coincidence or if there's some odd reason that my dream coincided with and seemed to resemble the horrific events of 9-11, but from that day on, I decided to take my dreams very seriously. I don't think that I possess psychic abilities or anything like that. I'm not even sure what I was supposed to "do" with that 9-11 dream. But I've just always experienced very vivid dreams with interesting plots - when examined closely, it seems evident that my dreams are often reflections of how I am feeling at the time. I find it interesting to consider my dreams, interpret them, and determine if they can help me "see" myself and my situation more clearly.

For example, during the last year of my knee drama,  I've been having a recurring volleyball dream. I used to be a decent v'ball player - I played senior in high school (we were provincial champs in 1995 - whoot whoot!) and although I was never University quality, by any means, I was always a pretty dependable, smart player.

My volleyball dream always has the same theme. I suck. The ball is coming directly at me, I get into position to pass and then either my feet refuse to move and the ball hits the ground within millimeters of me or I swing my arms without ever contacting the ball. Sometimes, the ball turns into a piece of furniture or once, a dog. At that point I'm completely screwed. The other common denominator in my dream is my coach. It's always Dr. M. And he's always pissed at me. In one dream, he pulled me aside and within inches of my face stated angrily, "I hand-selected you for this team. You have been nothing but a disappointment." I typically feel shame and awaken feeling shitty and frustrated. In one dream, Dr. M  hollered plays at me in another language. I knew he was trying to help me; yet, I could not understand a word out of his mouth. I felt lost. It has always been blatantly obvious to me that this recurring volleyball dream was a reflection of how I was feeling at the time. In each and every dream I felt frustrated. I felt paralyzed. I felt like a failure. In reality, although I was working my ass off to help/heal my knee, I was seeing no positive results. The knee became something out of my control. Essentially, I was "stuck" - just like my damn feet on that volleyball court. I think it's fitting that Dr. M was always "cast" as my coach. I was looking to him for guidance.  I was hoping he would fix me. He was trying. I was trying. It wasn't working. With every exasperated look he gave me as I entered his examination room with a new complaint, I felt like I was letting him down. He was working hard to help me. In retrospect, he was probably feeling just as frustrated and powerless with my non-compliant knee as I was.

One night in April; however, the dream was different. I was at volleyball practice and Dr. M stood on a chair, holding the ball above the net. My task was to hit the ball out of his hand. Each and every time I hit the ball, he would yell, "Too low. Too low. Too low." Each and every time I hit under the ball, causing the ball to repeatedly fly out of bounds. Finally Dr. M pulled me aside and said, "You know what Einstein said - the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Hmmmm. The dream had changed. The dream was so vivid and certainly had my attention. It was apparent to me that I could no longer go on the way I was. Something had to change.

A week later, Dr. M met with me in his office to discuss this new and exciting cartilage transplant. He explained the risks of having a surgery that was really still in its infancy (mainly the fact that we don't have a lot of long-term results to examine). I listened, I educated myself and I agreed to the surgery and certainly considered the "Einstein" dream. Perhaps that dream was leading me in this direction? I don't know, but I listened. It was time to try something different.

I haven't had the frustrating volleyball dream for months. In fact, last night I had the most wonderful, positive dream ever! In this dream, I was attending some event - it seems to me it was "Canada Summer Games." I was walking around happily, and then would suddenly realize that I didn't have my crutches! Panic would ensue and I would search everywhere for my crutches. I always found a pair, but they never seemed to belong to me. One pair of crutches was much too tall. One pair was much too short. One pair was actually made out of bricks (heavy!) Finally I was approached by my mom, "Kirstie, you don't need crutches anymore. You can walk. You will never need them again."

I woke up feeling amazing. Hopeful. Confident.

I've made an executive decision to pay close attention to that particular dream. Have your dreams ever told you something?

Exciting news! I received clearance to begin to weight bear today. I'm weaning down to 1 crutch and the ugly brace wreaking of blood, sweat, tears, and tequila is gone! We don't know for certain if the surgery was a success, but Dr. M is adamant that I am "the perfect specimen" for this surgery (no one has ever called me a "perfect specimen" before but I kinda like it!) so time will tell. I look a little like Bambi at the moment and there's definitely some pain. Ouch. Bring on the rehab...here we go!

Dundee, the dog, says, "Ok, ok, we know you love pics of yourself. Let me out, damnit"
Check out the scrawny right leg!

Sometimes I get a good feeling

One of my goals in life is to surround myself with awesomeness - positive people who will only lift me higher. I'm obviously succeeding in accomplishing this goal! Wow. After my last post, I received a whole pile of texts, phonecalls, and facebook messages of encouragement. Thanks guys. That was a tough one to post but I'm glad I did. I know it was probably too much information for a lot of people, but if it helped or enlightened even one person, then it was worth it.

I have one week of non-weight bearing to go....for a grand total of 8 weeks. I feel good. I'm so excited...but super nervous at the same time. The last 7 weeks have been strictly "love the cartilage" time. I've massaged it, EZmended it, kissed it, sunned it, wined it, dined it, and sung happy songs to it (The Turtles: "So happy together" is a current fav). I've done all that I can do to ensure that it wants to join "Team Kirstie." I think that I've convinced it, but I won't know for sure until I start testing it a little. I think it's ready though. I've got a good feeling.

In honour of my one-week countdown, I've decided to post a list that I've been creating and adding to for the past 6 months. It's my list of cool shit I will do when my knee is better. I have like 245 items now...I will share my top 10 because 245 would be a bit excessive now, wouldn't it?

Cool Shit that I will do once my knee works:

1. Jump to every song that contains the word "jump" in it. Top favorites include: Kriss Kross: "Jump" and House of Pain: "Jump Around" -  "I came to get down, I came to get down, so get off your feet and jump around." Someone will pop a bottle of champagne and I will jump as the champagne rains down on me (being careful not to slip, of course). I have goosebumps just thinking about it...

2. Walk confidently across a crowded room - currently my biggest fear is having to get up and crutch/cane/limp in front of a room full of people. I will confidently strut across a room and if anyone notices me, it'll be strictly because of my awesomeness - not because of my injury.

3.  Attend a week-long surf camp somewhere cool like Panama or Costa Rica. Becoming a proficient ocean surfer is a dream of mine. In fact, if I could be any movie character I would be Kate Bosworth's character in "Blue Crush" (although I would have at least waited until the 3rd date to sleep with that football dude. Isn't there some new "rule" about 3rd dates? I dunno, my last date was 1997).

4. Take my fabulous niece and nephew for a bike ride. I worry that their childhood memory of Aunty Kirstie will be of me laying on a couch with an "owie." I want them to associate Aunty Kirstie with fun and energy.

5. Pass the Thessaly in Dr. M's office. The Thessaly test is a quick little diagnostic that can detect cartilage tears. The patient stands on his bad leg, bends it slightly and hops. I know it's not a pass/fail type of test but mine is always "positive" which to me, represents failure. I don't fail tests. And apparently, practicing won't actually help you (I can still hear Dr. M, "You can't PRACTICE the Thessaly. It's a diagnostic." haha. Someday I will pass this damn thing and Dr. M and I will celebrate with a polka.

6. Longboard down the Rotary Trail. I had just learned how to longboard and was loving it prior to my injury. I can't wait to get back on that board - with a helmet of course...and maybe a suit of armour, just to be safe.

7. Find my ass. I know it's somewhere. If found, please return ASAP. It is dearly missed.

Best CD EVER. 

8. Tour a vineyard. I'm thinking one in the Okanagan would suffice. I picture myself skipping joyfully through fields of grapes...er wait....I picture myself stomping on the grapes like they do in the movies. I will have a canteen on my back that connects to a straw in my mouth. I will drink wine all day. Red, White, whatevs. I will not discriminate.

9. Drive my car. Where, you ask? Who cares. Sunroof open, 90's CD music blasting (that's right...CD. I am most likely the only person left on earth who listens to CD's. And yes, I still have Ace of Base and it's awesome). Maybe I want a Tims? Maybe I want the latest US magazine? Sushi perhaps? Who cares - I will hop in my car and drive wherever the hell I want to go with no need to pre-plan all my rides in advance (by the way, thanks soooooo much to anyone who has chauffeured my scrawny little ass around over the past 2 months. You rock)

10. I  decided to combine three of my goals into one because I couldn't decide which one best qualified for top 10: I will take my dog, Dundee, for a walk in my sexiest high heels, whilst occasionally dropping it like it's hot. Best walk ever! Someday I will video that little gem for you and we will all know that I've reached the ultimate goal. That will be saweet!

Oh boy! Did someone say...WALK???

Bonus: In the last 3 days, I've endured 4 strangers' long, incredibly boring stories about this one time when they "blew the knee out." First of all: Is "blowing out the knee" an actual Orthopedic diagnosis? Did you step on a land mine? What the h does that mean? Second of all, you are currently walking. I am not. I am not at all impressed, nor do I care. So....I have to add #11 to this list: I vow to find each and every stranger who subjected me to their lame knee stories. I will tie them down, cover their mouth with duct tape and then describe (in painstaking detail) each and every surgery and knee pain that I sustained. Bahhahahahah (evil laugh).

Other suggestions?

I can get by with a little help from my friends

Warning: I promised "good, bad, and ugly." This is most definitely the "ugly." Don't read if you're not up for ugly today.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to post this. Last week when I posted that goofy infomercial that I created a few weeks back, looking all happy and dorky, I was actually decreasing the last prescription pain med that I am on. It's a really positive thing. I don't really have pain anymore; therefore, I don't need all these pain meds. The thing is, upon weaning myself off these pills, I experienced one of the darkest weeks of my life. I hate to sound super dramatic because everyone is going through something, right? But the whole point of this blog is to document my recovery and keep it real throughout. This was real. And I'm sure some of you or someone you know has experienced this. I went through some heavy withdrawal symptoms and the physical, emotional, and mental pain was horrible; occasionally it was excruciating.

I've been on a lot of pain medication over the course of the year. It was really easy to get on them. One wouldn't work anymore, so then I'd take two. When two or three didn't work, my family doctor would give me a new one to try - and then maybe I'd mix the two and see if that would work - why not add a new pill to help me sleep at night? It escalated quickly. Next thing I knew, I was addicted, I guess (this coming from a girl who has never even smoked pot because she doesn't know how to inhale. I'm not joking).

My med dependence came back to kick me in the ass post surgery when bag after bag of morphine and dilaudid did absolutely nothing to reduce my pain. It was horrible. Eventually, Dr. M decided to prescribe a PCA machine (the patient pushes a button to release painkiller every 10 minutes). It worked. That little button became my lifesaver. Every so often I would panic, sifting desperately through my blankets, "Where's my button?!!!" "Nurse, where's my button?"

24 hours later, I was pushing that button like clockwork - every 10 minutes. Sometimes I jumped the gun and pushed at the 9 minute mark, only to be greeted with the frustrating message, "patient locked out ." Stupid PCA. I counted down the minute and immediately pushed when I knew I would be "unlocked" from the system. Dr. M came to check on me that morning.

"Dr M, I'm like 1 button push away from being Lindsay Lohan. I kinda want to stop. How do I stop?" I whined.

"It's easy," he replied. "Stop pushing the button."

Well, frick then. I can do that.

So I did. I just stopped.

That night, I puked for 9 hours straight, which was officially The. Worst. Night. Ever. And then it was done. I was off dilaudid, morphine, and every other narcotic that I had taken on and off for a year. I did spend the next week in bed, feeling pretty rough - but I was going to feel crappy anyway after my surgery, so it seemed like the logical time to stop.

Which brings me to where I am today. One more prescription pain med. Tramadol is a pain reliever, much like morphine. Tramadol has changed my neurochemistry. It has affected the chemicals in my brain called serotonin and norepinephrine. I have been on Tramadol for 9 months now. I am physically addicted to it and must proceed carefully, slowly decreasing my dosage. This could take months to be completely Tramadol-free. But that's ok. I have all the time in the world.

Please please please, if you, or someone you know is planning to stop an addictive drug, prescription or otherwise, do NOT do it alone. Talk to a Pharmacist or your Doctor first, make a game-plan, and ensure someone can be with you at all times. It's really fricken scary. Do NOT take this on by yourself.

The tense and grammar are all wrong, but I decided not to fix it. I was writing as it was happening. Although it was difficult to write, in retrospect, it actually required me to focus - which was helpful. Here it goes:


DAY 1:

I am shaky, sweaty, jittery, and I can't concentrate. Is it possible to "see" noises? Because I'm pretty sure that I can see noises too. I keep checking the window to check if someone is watching me. Who the hell would want to watch this? This sucks.

Day 2:

Today Evan started the blender. It was so loud that I started screaming - which was then louder than the blender, so I started crying. That made me super sad. Evan looked confused. Poor Evan.

My stomach reeeeeallllly hurts and my legs are jumpy. They annoy me. I'm so hot that I throw all the covers off of me, 20 seconds later I am so freaking cold that I cover myself back up. Repeat. Decided to spend rest of day curled up on bathroom floor.  I can't stop shaking and every now and then I feel a zapping sensation in my head. This sucks. I'm kinda scared.

Day 3:

I feel drained. I don't want to talk to anyone. My stomach hurts. My head is throbbing. My knee is aching. The only thing I've eaten today is chocolate covered almonds. I keep hearing, "Why even bother trying to stop the pills, it's not like my knee is actually ever going to get better anyways." Wha?? I don't actually believe that - why the hell is my brain putting these negative thoughts in my head? I picture a shady little man in a back alley of my frontal lobe, whispering, "pssssss...come on. Take a Tramadol. One won't kill ya." Ugh.  This f'n sucks and if it doesn't get any better tomorrow, I quit. I'm sad and pathetic. I feel like a burden on my family, friends, and society. I've convinced myself that I am alone. But, magically, my phone lights up with texts from all my favorite people. It's like they know. How can I possibly be alone when I have so many fabulous people cheering me on?

Day 4: 

11:00am: Had a nightmare last night that the world was ending. There were only a few minutes left on this Earth and I was alone because no one wanted to spend their last few minutes with me. I woke up screaming and crying and have been crying ever since.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and I resemble Amanda Bynes - not like pretty all-American "She's the Man" Amanda Bynes, but like cracked out, wandering the streets in that horrific wig, talking to herself, Amanda Bynes.

12:30pm: I texted Evan and asked him to come home because I can't be alone right now. I just can't. I don't trust myself to be alone. When he came home I felt unbelievably guilty that he had to leave the gym to deal with me. I cried and cried, blubbering things like, "I'm worthless," "Why are you still with me?" and then suddenly Evan pinched me! That's right...he pinched me. "Ouch! Did you just pinch me?" I yelled. "Come back to reality," he replied. Jerk. It kind of worked though. I'm momentarily more concerned about the pinch than my feelings of worthlessness. Things can't get any worse.

3:30 pm: Yes, they can! Every bad thing that can happen in a bathroom just happened all at the same time. Mom got called in for back-up. At this point, I kinda wanna die. I'm not actually considering killing myself, but I can't imagine living like this for 1 more minute. My head is vibrating with "noise." I look at my mom and feel like I'm such a disappointment to her. I know that I am not. I know she loves me more than anything, but at this moment I can't help but feel that I've just let her down.

7:00pm:  Chatted with Dr. M via text. He told me that if I need to talk, I can come in and talk with him. He said he'd supply the kleenex. I'm sure things will be better tomorrow. They have to get better. I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle, but at least I know that if tomorrow is bad, I will have back-up with Dr. M. Maybe he can admit me to psych or something and I will be like "Girl, Interrupted." Total cry time today: 9+ hours.

Day 5: 

Ok, so I didn't really sleep last night, but the world wasn't ending, nor did I awaken with a sense of impending doom, so that's good. In fact, I don't feel all that bad! Headache is gone. Stomach is hungry (finally!) and although I'm still not quite thinking clearly, I am not thinking that I am a worthless loser today. Actually, I feel kind of brave today. I can do this. Uh oh. I Just heard Natasha Bettingfield's song, "Unwritten," and I'm crying. The lyrics, "Today is where your book begins," hit me hard.  I want a new beginning.

I combed my hair and left my house today! Whoo hoo. I was a little sweaty in Safeway, but I stood in front of the milk fridge with the door wide open for a little while. I'm not feeling too concerned about how this may look to others. Whatevs. I see customers lined up at the pharmacy and I kinda wanna stop each one and say, "Please take your medication responsibly. Don't let it take control of you!" but then I realize how that would appear. The public would see a crazy woman, who has now sweated through her tank top, waving her crutches angrily in the air  - this could definitely result in a psych admission. Better not.

5:00pm: things seem to be crashing again. Every now and then I feel sheer panic and I kinda gasp, waiting for something terrible to happen. Nothing happens. It's like a mini panic attack. I'm so exhausted. Evan's taking me to my "happy" place - Candle Lake. If anything's gonna help, it'll be my deck at Candle Lake.

10:00pm: When we arrive at the lake, the water is not working. Ev ensures me that it will get fixed first thing in the morning but I can't help but feel like this is the last straw so I cry quietly on the couch. Ev sighs, kisses me on my forehead and leaves the room. He needs a break from me. I need a break from me.

Day 6:

It's a beautiful day at Candle Lake and I'm surrounded by awesome people. My friends are on the boat with me. I have a cold drink in my hand and the sun is shining. My buddies are so funny and supportive. All I hear is laughter and joy. I have moments where I can relax and enjoy this and then suddenly the moment ends and the feeling of panic returns. I feel better but I am still smiling through the madness.

Day 7:

Ok. I feel much better. I can do this. I still feel foggy and am not quite "Kirstie" just yet, but it's coming. I can feel it. My headache persists but I have a fabulous day on the boat planned with great friends. I know I can do this.

Day 8:

It's July 1 - Canada Day! This is my favorite day of the year. I wake up and realize that the fog has lifted. I'm back! I feel so relieved that I want to cry - but I have a parade to be in! Throughout the day, Ev and I occasionally hold hands or give each other a little "love tap" on the arm or leg. He knows that I'm back too. I send a quick text to Dr. M "Good news! I'm awesome again!" He writes back, "You were always awesome - even when you were stoned. No wake boarding!!!" haha. As I sit on my deck and watch the boaters cruise by I feel more alive than I've felt in a whole year. It just occurred to me that I essentially "lost" myself for a bit. I went from feeling nothing at all in my stoner state to feeling way too much. Terrifying. I'm not completely there yet. I'm still on 150mg of Tramadol a day - but I've cut my dosage down from 800mg (at my peak) and I feel good about that for now. I have months and months of rehab ahead of me. There will be pain. It won't be easy. But at this moment, I feel grateful for this gift of cartilage, I feel grateful for the beauty of Candle Lake, and most of all, I feel grateful to my amazing friends and family who have toughed it out and been there for me. I feel blessed.

My Rock. Love this guy. 

How can you not feel awesome with your arm around a Weber? :)