i love colorado. it kicked my ass and then saved my butt.

Greetings ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to a. mann's world. For those of you new comers, unaccustomed to the rants and raves and wild meanderings of this forum, let me take this opportunity to introduce myself: my name is Audrey, and I am broken. (in more ways than one, presently). And for all those returning guests (brave souls, indeed) let me use this time to get you up to speed. It has been far too long.

It is off-season where I live. Telluride, Colorado. A tiny resort town in southwestern Colorado. Or mud-season, as some aptly call it. So named for its abundant remains. The dirty laundry left from a season of hard play. And while my original intent was to high tail it to the desert at the close of the lifts, my travel plans were forced to change. As were many other plans and arrangements I had previously penciled in.

Part of me wishes that I was regaling this tale from the road. Headed northwest to Oregon and Washington. Stopping off first in San Fransisco to explore the hilly streets, organic restaurants, shops and markets. Where salt air melds with chocolate delight. A dream. A city I could consider calling home. Settling down with a local farmer. Opening a bakery or B&B. Spending my life covered in soil and flour.

Or perhaps my words would flow more freely if I were posted up in an Alaskan cabin. Where the northern lights dance across the sky like a flame on alcohol. Where the wilderness over takes you and you can't help but be reminded that you're alive. But that is a journey I pictured taking as one half of a pair. And it seems like far too long a drive to make without a co-pilot/personal DJ. Sometimes people bail. At least I knew this before I committed to a bear skin rug, a hunting rifle, and a stack of books. At least my destiny was determined for me. In a round about way.

Instead I find myself in Maine, in the final rounds of a Scrabble game versus my mom. I believe it no small coincidence that my last remaining letters spell out F-U-B-A-R. Maybe not a recognized word, according to my mother's handy Scrabble specific dictionary, but a perfect description for my current physical and mental health.

I broke my leg on February 13th. Fractured tibia, depressed tibial plateau, and sprained MCL. My first broken bone in thirty-ones years of activity. I think that's a pretty good percentage rate. While I was at it I figured I might as well go big, right? If I thought there was anything resembling "cool" associated with breaking a bone I was wrong. It hurts. In more than just the way a prescription for Vicodin will appease. It's painful not to be able to care for onesself properly. To be at the mercy of those around me. To fear stairs and snow covered side walks and anything that requires more than five minutes of standing at a time. Having a broken leg is truly a humbling experience. This isn't what I signed up for! My vote was for hiking Moab and Havasu Falls
Somebody please press rewind!!!!

The ski season had not been a particularly accommodating one. Snow falls were few and in disappointing accumulations. The town was getting restless and ready to be done with it. These emotions entirely echoed my own. I was struggling. Again. Cycled back around. And as I grew more exhausted daily, of fighting with myself, I planned my next big adventure, (read: running away) my would-be exit route. But summer's heartbreaks couldn't withstand the cold weather and the shortened supply of community. (Never underestimate the power of town park. There's healing in those late summer evenings on the volleyball court and soccer field.) And with a new rhythm to the season I quickly fell off beat. And back into my rut. My solution: get the hell out of dodge. Wendy lady has grown tired of all the Peter Pans, and my guilt at living such a fairy tail life has me overwhelmed. San Fransisco here I come!

Or so I thought.

God has this annoying way of shaking me out of myself. He would probably say that I have an exasperating way of ignoring Him until the last possible moment, but I'm telling "my" version of this story.

So there I was. Skis on. Headphones in. Hiking my mountain. Day after day after day. It's a good way to clear the head. Gets the juices flowing. Gets the mind going. Helps me sort things out. Get perspective. Gain some knowledge. I knew I wasn't okay. I passed fine years ago. And while I don't feel justified in claiming that I am unhappy, I would say I feel unfulfilled, and guilty for feeling so. My instinct was to run but a voice in my head kept calmly repeating "hold still". For weeks this continued. And for an equal number of weeks I quietly researched driving routes through the Pacific Northwest. Surprise. I'm endlessly stubborn. But when God is talking to you it doesn't do you much good to pretend you have a bad connection or your call has been dropped. There's no such thing as a dead zone in this scenario. I imagine God to be like the Verizon guy..."Can you hear me now?" You might chose to ignore His call, but he'll always leave a voice mail and it's never too late to call Him back.

"Be still. Let go. You are loved. Deal with it!" That was my message. And while it looped through my brain like the guitar line from Wye Oak's "Civilian" I could not shake this bottomless fear of being a burden to others. Somehow this was at the heart of all my escape acts and avoidance tactics. That heavy burden of knowing that I am not enough. That I am too much. That despite my efforts, in a seemingly previous life, I failed miserably at keeping someone's love. And now I am left alone to figure out my Plan B. "I'm afraid of my solitary experience with the world. Even with many amazing people in my life, will I ever feel like someone Knows me again? Can I even trust another person with the darkest, weakest parts of my heart?" -Sarah Painter

I saw it happen before it happened. A flash in my mind. A moment of clarity. I pictured the tumble...and then...I was tumbling. So surreal. Falling end over end. Then rolling. Then sliding. Yelling when I couldn't stop myself. Screaming when my body made unnatural twists and torques. Snap, crackle, pop, was no longer reserved for Kellogg's breakfast cereal. And after the ski patrol sled ride down the mountain, and the reluctant trip to the emergency room, my x-rays revealed my greatest fear had come to fruition. The films read my fate. Broken bones. Crutches and a brace. And non weight baring for ten to twelve weeks post surgery. (my adventures with finding an orthopaedic surgeon are another tale entirely). I found myself completely dependent on those around me. To cook and clean, run errands and walk the dog. You could stubbornly find me climbing into the tub or attempting to bake cookies. Miraculously I managed to vacuum my room on crutches. And for a while I strategized how to get bowls of food and mugs of tea from the kitchen to the livingroom. Giving in only when forcibly rescued by my roommates and friends, who repeatedly, yet patiently, witnessed my egotistical pride as it damn near drown me in my inability (read: refusal) to ask for help.

Not being able to do for myself is equally as crippling as the fracture itself. It's a mental game. And I am fighting to stay on top of it. Trying not to fight to hard with myself. To practice a healthy vulnerability. Asking for help doesn't equivocate laying yourself out like a doormat. Let yourself be loved. And cared for. And be grateful for those who are lavishing such sincere gestures. Magazines and cookies. Home-cooked meals. Late night consolation at the drop of a hat. Dog walkers galore! These are gifts I can only hope to be able to pay back in kind.

And at the top of the list, a mother who put everything aside to come rescue me from my stubborn self. Who offered, without me ever having to ask, to come get me and bring me back to her home until I am healed. I don't even know where to begin with that one. I feel so unworthy at every turn. And find myself frustrated at not being able to pull my own weight. We argued tonight. A combination of mounting anxieties and far too much inactivity. I lashed out at an inquiry she made. But I find myself endlessly defensive when put in a position which reminds me off all the ways I have failed to measure up. I have made quite a mess of things for myself. I am working on getting things back on track. Getting my ducks in a row so I can focus all that wasted energy on moving forward. I want a straight line. I've grown far too dizzy from walking all these years in circles. But I still have old habits. And like a trapped animal my basest instinct is to attack when threatened. I know it's not healthy and it is far from productive. But I keep that guard up. It doesn't make any sense. But neither does the fact that I fell down a mountain and survived, while my cousin (only two months my elder) had a heart attack in his condo and passed away.

Can a person be anymore broken? The answer is "yes". As long as you have breath enough to inquire, the answer is always yes. And I think probably long after that, too. Be careful with your questions. Answers don't usually extend the same kindness. But then, sometimes you need to be shaken out of yourself. Sometimes you need to be reminded to answer the call. Wake up! This is your life. This ain't no practice round.