The below is from a blog I posted a year ago about a little girl in a bright, pink cast that she didn’t want. I’m in my mid-thirties now, still trying to untangle the hard-wiring of being a people-pleaser which often ends me up in situations I never wanted. I’ve learned over time that “people pleasing” is a trauma response, but there’s a lot more digging to be done there.
Anyway, I like this blog I posted and as we move into the anxiety-inducing holidays, perhaps you can find yourself a cozy blanket to be signed. I’ll proverbially sign it for you, if you want or need it.
“There is no cast for the shattered remains of your dignity. The owness is on you to pick them up, one by one, and puzzle them back together. And it sucks. It sucks when you realize there’s no one who will sign your cast and it’s glaring neon pink, reminding you day in and day out how bad it hurts.”
I love you, I really do,
I broke my left wrist two years in a row from two different accidents in the 3rd and then the 4th grade. Being only 8 and then 9 at the time, I guess the breaks hindered my wrist development because to this day, both the mobility and strength in that left joint are limited. That arm is the slightest bit shorter, too. I remember the pain and the subsequent casts I had to wear. For the first break, I told the doctor I wanted a black cast when presented my color options, but he told me I should get pink because little girls like pink and that way, my friends could sign it.
He didn’t know that I didn’t like pink, that I’d get made fun of for pink, and that I didn’t have any friends and of course I didn’t tell him that. So I got the bright pink…
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