I used to have this fear of frailty. That I'd be "less than" because I get migraines, that I have a trainwreck of a back and neck thanks to choices in leisure activities, exacerbated by actual injury. I've got a brain that doesn't quite fire right, meaning it spins off on its own path, too fast, too dark, and too anxious. I'm a packrat, and have historically carried around extra body "just in case I came up short", which is the dumbest thing to hoard, ever. I'm well versed in pain, spending weeks a year whispering curses into ice packs, leaking pain inspired tears into pillows, and being pickled by epsom salts and opioids. Part of my identity has historically included the word, "broken" on some level. Empirical evidence and some other bullshit I'd talked myself into.
This morning, with the duvet pulled up to the tip of my frosty little nose, my logic and my emotion stood akimbo over me, and in unison said, "And?"