Three Months Post Second Op

Last time I posted was about three and a half months ago. I tried writing another post since my second operation. Actually, I wrote almost 5 pages single-spaced about being part of the third largest minority group in the U.S. Many experiences about racial injustice have surfaced itself in the last couple months, and I felt inspired, or rather compelled, to share my own, but there really is too much to say about that for just one post. I’ve reread my last blog a couple times now that I’m more level-headed, to say the least, and damn I was depressed. My writing will probably never be as good as that because hopefully I’m never that overcome with emotion and sadness again. Regardless, aside from rethinking my life decisions, nightmares about knee surgery, and some apocalyptic sentiments, the last few months have been chillin.

Initially, the procedure I was to undergo was fairly simple, without getting too much into it: some cadaver bone plugs and a trim or two on my meniscus. Instead, in addition to the bone plugs, I ended up having a full-on medial meniscus repair leaving my leg locked out straight in a brace for 6 weeks, including when I slept. That being said, the first solid breakdown came around just about 4 weeks post op when I was sick of walking around with a crutch and I couldn’t help but feel absolutely useless in every aspect of my life. I started working in my dad’s office at that time because there was no way I could sit in my house by myself all day after my brother left for North Carolina and my mom went back to work. I hated what I did. What made it tolerable was the fact that I was making money but the scariest part about it was that it was engineering related. So, it hit me that I was doing all this work in school getting the best grades I possibly could to someday work this kind of whack ass job. Oh fuck no. That made me spiral into another crisis of how I sacrificed my happiness growing up by prioritizing soccer and in turn missing birthdays, weddings, and family gatherings. Doesn’t every 20-year-old torture themselves with these thoughts or just me? Just me? Yeah, I thought so.

As the COVID outbreak continually increased and quarantining became more normalized, many self-care and mental health promotions became very popular on social media so that you won’t go crazy being with your family or by yourself. I think this priority on happiness has become one of the more important aspects of life that my generation, in particular, has taken to heart. That being said I think happiness is a very generational concept. Do you think my grandparents gave a fuck about their happiness when they left everything to come to the United States? They left that shit a long time ago. My paternal grandfather left his mother and his sister in his home country at the age of 13 and traveled halfway across the world to meet his father, who had already left him, for the possibility, not the assurance, of a better and more prosperous life. At that point, I don’t think he really gave a fuck about his happiness because that shit already flew out the window of the plane he was flying. Therefore, I sometimes feel ashamed thinking about my potential lack of happiness if I never play soccer again blah-blah-blah bull cocky. I only tore my ACL twice; there are worse things in this world.

I have these enlightening revelations about things possibly being so much worse than they are, but why do I sometimes feel so miserable and suffocated in my anxiety about the uncertainty of the future? I really can’t be the only one. Honestly, I think we care too much. Now, I’m not saying to care less about your problems; there’s no way in HELL I can worry less about my lack of an ACL at the moment. But do you ever find yourself worrying about how much you worry, or getting angry with yourself about how angry you get at little things? Don’t you think there’s something wrong with this kind of thinking? Why do we think like that? Because the INTERNET tells us to do things that make us happy, but there are days when I just don’t feel like being fucking happy, and I thought this wasn’t normal. Apparently, it is, and we have to let ourselves feel the hurt sometimes because if we don’t, we become numb to what is actually going on around us. And then we get angry, and then we get mad at ourselves for being angry. If this sounds familiar, good, it should be; I’m trying to be an engineer, not a damn philosopher. I got it from a concept called Theravada Buddhism and a book, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, by Mark Manson. Fitting title for me, don’t ya think? Basically, Manson wanted to get across the point that we only have so many precious fucks to give, so we need to choose them wisely. Worrying about how much you worry and getting angry with yourself about how angry you get at little things are wasting the fucks you can give!

Makes sense, right? Easier said than done, but I’ve been trying I promise. I will never be able to replace the joy that soccer brings, whether it’s in these next few months rehabbing or after my career is actually over (because I’m convinced that it’s not, just yet). There’s nothing that gets your blood pumping like a smothering a breakaway and taking a ball to the chest while the forward topples over your shooting body across the ground. Yeah, there’s no way I replace that feeling. However, are there other things that make me happy? Of course, like my family, reading Harry Potter books, and eating. Eating brings incredible joy, and recently cooking and baking, but only if the final product is good, if not the whole process is just a fucking disappointment, like dry, under seasoned chicken breast.

There’s a point in time when we need to trust ourselves. Trusting God? That’s easy. Trusting myself? That’s a whole other ball game. Between the pandemic, my injury, fall seasons being cancelled (including mine), the fall semester being officially switched to online instruction (as of today), it’s hard for me to trust that I’m going to make it out of this in one piece. I feel as though I’m being forced to put my life on hold, and honestly, I’ve never felt this way before. With every setback I had, there was always an ultimate goal, so it was easier, for lack of a better term, to push past the shit that was thrown my way because I had that goal, that singular, laser focus that I always reminded myself of as to not be distracted by the bullshit that didn’t matter. And it worked, I made it to college, didn’t I? But now, I don’t know the goal. It can’t be the comeback of the century as much as I want it to be because whether or not I want to play competitively again may or may not be up to me. This uncertainty, the maybe’s, the maybe not’s, it drives me insane and it keeps me up at night! And then I come back to the thought of trusting myself, and think what the fuck, this is the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do. Being dramatic, as usual, but it’s not easy, that’s for damn sure. But when has anything ever been easy? This time is so historical in our nation because it is the first time in most of our lifetimes that we are all struggling at the same time in one way or another because of the current circumstances. Trust yourself you’ll make it through. Trust.

Also, my friend, Juliette, and I started a podcast and we'll be releasing an episode as soon as we learn how to sound like we don't have sticks up our asses. So stay tuned for that! :)