Right. Thought I'd try and do a serious post, having barely slept for two nights, in the hope it might help.
Of course, I don't know how to say what I want to say.
Last night, I was worried about John. Which, on the face of it, is stupid. Obviously I don't want physio to hurt him, but I also know he's sensible, he's in the hands of trained professionals - he is a trained professional, and they will, in Sherlock's words, 'make him better'. Maybe not 'good as new', but 'better', which is obviously good. I know he doesn't like to admit it when he hurts - I understand, I don't like admitting when I hurt either. I respect that.
So really, if I think about - which I've had plenty of time to - I'm not worried about John. I'm worried about me. I'm worried I won't do the right thing. And in that, I'm worried I'll annoy him.
The majority of my life has been spent doing the wrong thing. Not really the wrong thing, but the wrong thing in the eyes of those I've surrounded myself with. When I was little, hurting was inconvenient, at best. Mum didn't have time for it. And when I was old enough to help out, then she just wanted the problem gone. So I'd spend any time with my younger siblings half mopping up the cuts and bruises, and half telling them they had to stop crying, they had to be brave. And it doesn't really work like that. As you lot frequently point out, saying you're fine doesn't make it true.
At the same time, I think only a few of you who regularly comment understand how stressful it is to be told you're not fine. If I say I'm fine, when I'm not really, then telling me I'm not doesn't help, it just makes me mentally feel like I've failed, as well as feeling like my body has physically failed. I find that very hard to deal with. So when someone tells me they're fine...I don't want to push it. I want to assume that, left alone, they'll admit they're not if they want to.
However, in a show of total double standards, if John says he's fine, then every fibre of me wants to make sure that's really true, and that there really, really, isn't anything I can do make him better.
But...isn't there always one? Another part of me got very used to trying to help, and, pain and alcohol and drugs doing what they do to the mind, it'd just put me straight in the firing line. Of course, being...I was going to say an idiot, but you lot would shoot me down. Being who I am, that didn't exactly put me off. Just made me wary. Got faster at ducking, that sort of thing. Because if I didn't try to help, well, the outcome wasn't any better. Different excuse, same result.
So now I'm torn. I offer to help, John says he's okay, and he'll tell me if there's anything I can do - and I should just leave it there. Trust him. But instead my brain just gets tied in knots of wanting to do something - anything - and being afraid that if I do, given that he does go a bit quiet, and a bit...not like he usually is - understandably... that I'll suffer the consequences. Which really is stupid, because he's John, and he'd never do anything like that. So I end up just dicking about uselessly and probably annoying him half to death. I don't know. And all he can do about is is promise he really will tell me. Which I totally believe.
But there's still a whole big bit of my brain with lights flashing and warnings going off and I just can't.make.it.shut.up.
So there you go. Me, me, me, on a day that should be all about him. Brilliant.
I think I'm going to regret posting this.