Spending two years mostly lying in bed, it really gives you the opportunity to think. And, naturally, I was thinking a lot about what had happened to me. I mulled over the factors that had contributed to me being in the state I was, the same events you have just read about in the paragraphs above. Slowly, I realized that I wasn’t being entirely honest with myself. Nothing you have read is a lie, but there were truths missing from what I’d been telling myself, just as there are truths missing from what you’ve just read.
Let’s go back to the beginning. After I’d fainted in the supermarket, the woman being held back by her husband’s outstretched arm had asked me, “Are you okay?” Her husband had prevented her from moving forward and helping any more than that, but at least she had asked. And how did I respond? Like I said, my memory of that day is groggy, but I think I said something like, “I’m fine.” Likewise, when the cashier watched me struggle to pack my bags, she may not have offered any assistance, but I didn’t ask for the help I needed either. And it gets worse. Next, let’s reconsider the doctor’s office, the time I was confronted by the alpha male who reminded me of my PE teacher. I really don’t think I communicated exactly how much I was struggling, how ill I really was. Bravado and desire to save face when confronted by a successful, intimidating presence stopped me from being honest about my weakened condition, and I think it led me to accept the advice of “Push through it” far too readily.