I fell. Please help.

A few years ago, I fell. 

I slipped and busted my bum on stairs in my house that my ex-girlfriend describes as “beautiful and treacherous”. 

This wasn’t a little stumble. 

Each time I attempted to move, the pain was so excruciating I was filled with terror something was really wrong with my body. 

Assistance was required.

Home alone, prone on the floor, I called my husband and several friends I thought might be nearby. I couldn’t get in touch with anyone.

I called my mother-in-law, a physician who lives out of state, for advice. She explained that the longer I laid on the floor, the more difficult my recovery would be. She suggested I consider calling an ambulance if I couldn’t get someone there quickly.

After I army crawled to the freezer to pull an ice pack onto my butt (her idea), I kept calling around.

When Jeff, a close family friend who worked nearby, answered the phone, I’d been on the ground for about 20 minutes. My portion of the call went something like this:

Hi Jeff, how’s your day going?

Oh that’s nice. Are you headed to work soon?

So, I fell down the stairs, and I was wondering if you could help me get up before you go in.

Years later, I still remember his reply: 

“Lelia. You are actively injured. LEAD WITH THAT.” 

He was right. I could’ve started the call by saying, “I fell. Please help,” but I didn’t want to inconvenience or alarm. 

Even in a state of emergency that could easily have warranted an ambulance, I felt the need to be polite and to have a sunny disposition, one marked by concern for others and decorum. (Talk about toxic positivity and learned femininity…)

A similar situation happened this week, although blissfully this time no injuries were sustained. 

I’d been chatting with a new friend about an essay I’m writing on chronic illness. She’s also a writer, and I’d left our conversation so inspired I nearly pulled over on the way home to write. (I settled for texting myself notes at stop lights.) 

Later, my friend asked to read what I’d written. The minute I sent it, I felt the instinct to discount or contextualize it. To say, “My writing is usually punchier, lighter, and more friendly.” Almost to apologize, 

“I’m usually more palatable. I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with my suffering.”

Y’all. She’d literally asked to read it. We’d already talked about my experience with chronic illness and with this piece specifically. She knew what she was signing up for, and was unlikely to turn away in disgust.

In retrospect, this instinct to apologize was almost as unnecessary as my worry about slightly inconveniencing Jeff, who’d been a best man in my wedding and literally worked a block away. 

As someone whose sunny disposition and optimism have long been valued, it’s difficult for me to embrace the darkness. To trust that my readers and loved ones can handle the depth of my true experience. Hell, to trust I can handle it. I’m striving to remind myself:

My pain isn’t something to be embarrassed by or to protect others from. 

If I want to know myself deeply, that includes accepting the suffering. People who care for me, people who want to truly know me, embrace all of it: the full range of my very human experience. I don’t have to be Suzie F***ing Sunshine all the time. 

I’m not suggesting we download our trauma to people who haven’t consented. Rest assured, I won’t be weeping and sharing my woes with baristas and grocery store clerks. 

Instead, I’m reimagining what deep connection and intimacy can include in my life. I’m reminding myself the ways vulnerable personal essays and memoirs can help us feel seen, from a safe distance.* 

After my spill down the stairs, I was able to drive and proceed with normal life within a few weeks thanks to the friends who literally picked me up off the floor (and some physical therapy). 

I’m committed to continuing to write about the ugly, the difficult. I’ll usually seek out moments of levity in the process, but I’m also reminding myself that it’s also ok—important even—to acknowledge the full depth of my experience.

With loads of love and sometimes a healthy dose of darkness, I’m sending great big hugs.

Lelia