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Eight weeks with crutches and my self-image has changed: I can no longer imagine myself walking. In another five weeks I hope to be walking, but I can’t picture it. I can’t see myself walking around my apartment or hopping on the bus. Oh, I definitely can’t see myself hopping. Or jumping or running or even standing on two legs. I see myself on crutches forever.

The cast has been replaced with a boot. I can take it off to shower and sleep, but I can’t put weight on it. My right leg looks alien to me: the foot is swollen and boxy, and the leg is terribly thin. My skin is flakey and purple. The pain is usually minimal but constant, as long as I’m doing nothing. More than ten minutes out of bed and the pain spikes, and so does the paranoia. 

I told my parents that if I ever break another bone, then they should euthanize me, like they would a dying dog. They laughed. Right now, with my ankle the size of a softball and my social life on life support, I don’t think I was kidding.