The Arm Is Not the Whole Story

I keep trying to sort the damage into useful and useless. The elbow is useful if it gives me a reason to be angry. Brayden is useful if I can turn him into a target and keep my head pointed one direction. The cracked glass is just proof that something happened, which is less satisfying than proof that I can still control what happens next.

I was proud I didn't swing. I was also furious that I was proud. There is a version of me that thinks restraint only counts if nobody mistakes it for weakness, and I hate how much I still want those men to see me as dangerous. I wanted the card more than I wanted the clean, sensible answer. That is the part I don't want to dress up as courage.

The old AIS singlet on the wall made the room feel like a witness. I couldn't tell if I wanted it there to remind me what I lost or to make sure nobody could forget I used to be good at something before boxing. I miss swimming in a way that still feels embarrassing, like I should have gotten over a career ending years ago. My body keeps giving me new ways to prove I haven't.

I don't know what the result settles. I know my arm hurts, and I know I let the people in my corner carry some of the weight without pretending I was fine. Tomorrow I will probably call that practical. Tonight it feels closer to being scared.