Tough Mudder: Arbors at Fair Lakes Edition

I was out walking Poncho in my work clothes at around 8:15 Friday morning, waiting on my bus,  when a neighbor and her dog, a golden retriever mix, began to approach us from the left. We were standing near my patio, and the ground was wet and soft from the multiple rain/snow/sleet/sneet incidents we've had in the past month. 

As he often does when other (bigger) dogs approach, Poncho began to get that look in his eye: the stare that occurs when he is on the precipice of an attack. 

His ears perked. 

His front paws lunged. And he began to bark and weave in and out between the left leg and arm brace that I was using to block him. 

I felt my feet slipping in the mud. 

I asked my neighbor if she wouldn't mind going the other way. 

"It'll be ok, " she said, and they proceeded in our direction. Poncho pulled hard on his lead and I turned to the side to try to block him from a different angle. My left foot slipped again, and I fell forward. 

Right into the wet mud. 

I still had a hand on his lead. The neighbor apologized and asked if she could help. I told her that she shouldn't approach with the dog, because Ponch is a biter. 

She left us there, and ironically, proceeded in the direction I had asked her to walk before. I pulled myself over to the patio railing and tried to pull myself up while keeping a hold on Poncho. 

My left foot kept slipping and I felt that knee rattling each time I fell. 

Right back into the mud. 

I could pull myself up. All I needed was someone to spot my feet from behind. 

A maintenance man came by. I asked for his help. He said he couldn't help me. 

A neighbor, Allison, stopped and offered to take Poncho from me, so that I could focus on getting up. She sat with him for awhile, and after he realized she meant me no harm, they walked away and he kept looking back to make sure I was still where he left me. 

A leasing agent pulled up in her car and offered me a jacket. It was raining lightly, and I was shaking from the cold. 

I asked her for help. She said she couldn't help me but that she'd already called the fire department and the ambulance. 

Excuse me? The who and the what?

I explained that I wasn't dying, I just needed a little help. She said she'd prefer to wait for the professionals. 

Realizing my attempts to ask for help were futile, I got comfortable and settled back down. 

Right into the mud. 

 

When the firemen arrived, one approached, a dark-skinned, average-sized man who sounded like he was from Ethiopia. 

"What were you doing here?  Trying to ski in the mud?"

"Mud-bathing," I replied. "I heard it's good for your youthful complexion."

He laughed, handed me a towel, and said, "Well, I'm going to come from behind and pick you up like a real man."

And with that, he scooped me up as though I was a rag doll, spun me around, and put the towel around my shoulders. 

He smiled a genuine smile. 

We had a moment. 

 Truth be told, if he hadn't been at work, and 15 people hadn't been standing, staring, I would have asked for his number. 

But I thanked him and walked toward my door. I was late for work and needed to change. Allison and Poncho followed, and we walked inside to get ourselves cleaned off. 

While pondering the events in the shower, at first I was mortified. I had lain in the mud for 30 minutes, all because everyone who passed was too scared/astonished/confused to help me. 

I understood not wanting to help from a liability perspective, but I wasn't hurt, and I wasn't asking for a pick me up. 

I just needed someone to spot me. 

But the more I thought about it, I knew I should just let it go. 

I was fine. 

My dog hadn't hurt anyone. 

I had a new, hot towel and a short interlude with a hot firefighter. 

What's not to like?

I suppose mud-bathing is not so bad after all. 

Bulletproof

Once a couple of years ago, I took on the task of describing the process of self acceptance (Click on the link to read that particular post).  Self-acceptance is still a process; each of us still has to make a conscious decision to look in the mirror, and to accept who we see staring back through the glass at us every single day.

It's a process that won't end... until we do.

I sat down with a friend last Thursday to eat a burger.  This friend is one who really knows me; she isn't afraid to tell me when I have mustard on my nose or a stray hair marring my coif.  She accepts me for who I am, and I accept her.  Sometimes, looking at her is a bit like looking into a mirror itself.  She has spastic cerebral palsy too, and though it affects us both differently, I see myself in her quite often.  Seeing the characteristics that CP has brought out in her (her sense of humor, her determination, her excitement for life's simple pleasures) often reminds me of how much my disability has helped shape who I am too-- both good and bad.

This friend is a beautiful person, who smiles a lot, always offers a helping hand to a friend, and is quick to apologize, sometimes even when there is nothing to apologize for.

She has a college degree, a great job at federal agency, a loving, caring boyfriend, and a ton of friends and acquaintances.  There's never a dull moment or a free weekend with her.

And yet... this friend... who from the outside seems to have it all, is on the inside often wishing she were someone else entirely.

This breaks my heart.  I love her as she is, so why can't she?

She can't love herself, because she is continually seeking approval and acceptance from two people in her life whom she knows will never grant it-- her parents.

I consider myself extremely lucky to have been born to parents who love me for who I am... They've always been very clear with me that they don't love me in spite of myself... but for myself.  Yes, they can be overprotective, and sometimes, I get really annoyed when my dad calls me from Kentucky at 9:30 to tell me to go to bed, or snoops in  every drawer and cabinet when they visit.

But I would much rather have overprotective, nosy parents, who treat my armbraces as fashion accessories, and encourage me to pursue paralympic workout plans than parents who say, "Why couldn't you have been an easier child?"  "Why can't you walk with your arms at your sides?"  "Why can't you be more like (insert name here)?"

They don't ask those things, because they don't want those things.  When someone accepts you truly, they accept all of you-- quirks, imperfections, oddities-- because they love all of you.  Any one characteristic doesn't make a whole person; the sum of characteristics, thoughts, dreams, and experiences define the whole.

My friend is not her difficult childhood (which I would wager was just as hard for her as for her parents).

She is not he way her arms fall when she walks... or the way she wears her hair... or her makeup... or any other number of shallow characteristics.

She is so much more: an intellect, a laugh, a sense of humor, an honest soul, a kind heart.

She is all of those things.  But-- she is not bulletproof.

No matter how much she tries to focus on the positives in her own self, she can't get past 34 years of barbs, and digs, and pointless (really) questions hurled at her by her parents.

Her argument is often, "Well, they made me, so they must really know what I am... and everyone else must be wrong."

Nope.

Her parents, just like all other human beings on this Earth, look at her and choose.  They choose to see what they want to see.  Accept what they want to accept.

Unfortunately for her, they don't choose to accept much.

If we're not careful, our own perceptions of who we are can become gnarled with the perceptions of us that others choose to see.  That may not be an entirely negative thing; but it can become one.

For example, for a long time, I perceived myself to be good at little else than physical relationships with men. I was told that I was broken, damaged goods, and that I needed to do something to prove myself.  This made sense to me.  Men are primarily visual creatures, and I knew I had to do something to offset that initial "broken" impression they had of me.  What better way than to show them just how wrong they were about what they thought they saw?

Strange thing about that approach, it didn't work either.

Hearing things like, "You should just love me; because no one else is going to love you," or, "I'm only dating you until a normal girl comes along," don't exactly do a lot for your sense of self-acceptance.

I may not be broken.  Or damaged.  But I'm not bulletproof either.  I walked into adulthood expecting most adults to accept me just the way my parents did, and  when they didn't, I started to wonder what it is that they saw in me that my (clearly) biased parents didn't see.

The answer.  Nothing.  They didn't see me.  They made a choice to see the parts of me that they wanted to see.  I am not 2 metal sticks.  Or some blonde hair.  Or a set of reproductive organs.

I am all that... and so much more.  And a bag of chips.  And a coke.  20 oz., y'all.

The blessing and the curse in the process of self-acceptance is that we get the whole picture from the beginning.  We don't get to know ourselves in bits and pieces.  We see the whole mirror, top to bottom, front to back, side-to-side,  Sure, that may mean that we know our own flaws better than any other person on this Earth, but it also means that when another person chooses to see us for just one aspect, we are able to see the blind spots in their perceptions for what they really are.

Not our flaws.  But theirs.