When I learned to let go of the safety grab bar by the toilet so I could pull down my clothes I felt a supreme satisfaction. It was a mental battle to put faith in something I couldn’t feel. I trusted my leg to hold me up and learned to rely on the familiar routine of my body.
It was something I’d come to depend on.
It would be my only chances to fully stand some days.
And I would look down. Not with fear, but with the abstract thought of what a long fall it was.
I no longer have that abstract thought. I can no longer look down without the fear of falling.
Remembering the slow-motion fall hitting my face and arm, seeing the floor rushing up to my face, throwing my left arm up to protect my head and the unplaceable pain in my right side.
Hearing the sound my body makes when it smacks concrete.
I see the door I struck and know its harder than human bone.
The pain of the moment of impact and the bone that needed to fixed has been nothing compared to the fear I now feel.
The fear that the satisfaction is gone forever.