I’m tough.

December 2020

I lied.
I like PT because I like to show how tough I am.
Because my body may be broken, may be in pain,
but I’m tough.

It can take away my mobility, my abilities,
but it can’t take away my toughness.
It can ache and break and sting and slow,
but I’m tough.

I’m tough, I tell myself as I grasp onto the IV stand, walking through the barren hospital corridors.
I’m tough, I tell myself as I’m poked and prodded by dry needles and blood draws.
I’m tough, I tell myself as I extend my knees once more, because sometimes staying bent just hurts too much.
And I’m tough enough to withstand standing too long,
when the knees just feel puffy and stodgy and old all at once.

I’m tough — aren’t I?
I don’t complain. I ice. I medicate.
I take the needles and the doctors and the medical history forms with great cheer.

But will anyone every call my bluff? Say,
“Aye, lass. Why the false cheer?”

Why the false cheer?
Well, I’m tough.
And tough girls are unshakeable,
stronger than the brokenness.
Tough gets praised.
Tough makes me feel stronger.
Tough means I’m not a victim of my body.
Tough is my control, my shield, my badge of honor.
Toughness cannot be taken away from me.

At the end of the day, I can say I’m tough.

Aren’t I?