Two days ago, I fell while running. I simply tripped over a tree root and fell face forward onto the macadam. I managed to break my fall with my arm and knee, so I avoided serious injury, but blood was still dripping from my wounds. A shocked middle-aged man with a strange accent asked me if I was OK. I jumped back to my feet quite embarrassed, apologised a few times, and picked up my pace to show everyone that I was fine. There's no need to worry about me. I don't want to be an inconvenience — I'm tough!
It wasn't until I ran another kilometre when I realised that the blood from the wound on my knee is soaking my sock and that I cannot keep running like a crippled madwoman in a zombie movie so I stopped the activity on sports watch and speed-limped all the way home where I reassured my mum - completely shaken while sticking plasters all over me - that I'm fine and laughed it off.
However, when I went to bed and sticky liquid seeped through my plasters and stained the sheets, I realised that I might not be as well as I had claimed on Strava. Well, the wounds are superficial and will heal in a few weeks. I might look a bit bizarre wearing a skirt to a job interview, but I will indeed be fine.
The problem is that I don't only react like this to physical cuts and bruises, but to emotional ones too. When I'm disappointed by another man or a situation, when I have suicidal thoughts or when I starve myself again, I do the same thing: I bow my head in embarrassment at being seen to 'fall' or 'fail', apologise and reassure people that I'm fine. I even believe it for a moment or two (or a few months, to be honest). But after that, the realisation of the pain hits me, and sometimes the wounds that were supposed to be disinfected have already festered and are extremely hard to heal.
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