Back In Black
For someone as comfortable with Amazon as I am, I’m surprised it took me this long to start ordering from Walmart.
On August 4th, the doc gave me the green light to walk again. “Take it easy. Don’t overdo it. Wear arch supports. Keep the ankle straight.” No walking boot needed — just my steel-toed leather boots with stiff sides and a decent set of insoles. We’re kicking it old school now.
That same night, I went for a walk — twenty minutes, covered about a third of a mile. The next day, I pushed it to a full mile in just over thirty. Foot was aching after, but that’s what painkillers are for. Not bad, considering I did both of those walks in slippers.
Now it’s the morning of the sixth. Boots laced, insoles in, fresh socks, new cargo pants, black sleeveless shirt. The day hasn’t even begun to hit, and I’m already in motion.
Lately, all I’ve really been able to do is look at my life — and the more I look, the more I realize just how much of a pushover I’ve been. “Nice to meet you, my name is Door Mat” level of compliance.
Boss needed overtime covered? I’d take it.
Friends wanted to hang out? “Whatever you guys want.”
Even if I hated the place — like that bar and grill with the shitty atmosphere — I’d go anyway because the food was alright and they wanted it.
Dropped friends because exes didn’t like them.
Took on extra shifts so they could shop without thinking about bills.
Worked brutal, body-breaking jobs so they didn’t have to work at all.
Fuck that.
Fuck all of it.
This year has been a reckoning.
Riding suicidal ideation that my now-ex decided was “too much to handle.”
She took the kids, moved nearly 100 miles away.
Employer won’t staff enough to cover our shifts.
Then the car crash — should’ve killed me.
Child support dropped like a hammer.
Insurance hell.
Lost most of my gear and tools in the wreck.
Accused of child abuse — and no, I wish that was a joke.
Yeah.
Fuck this year.
And fuck the man I was before it.
Now I’m back in steel toes. Canvas and cotton on my frame. Hat pulled low. Hair tied back.
Walking rebirth.
When I finally get cleared to return to work, I’ll admit — they’re in for a shock.
The man who left that plant on the morning of May 28th?
He’s not the one walking back in.
And that nurse — the one who saw me broken on a gurney, who gently removed my necklace and watch —
She’s gonna see me on my own two feet, walking in to take them back.
Because the man I used to be?
The pushover?
He died that morning.
The man who rose in the trauma center — scarred, steel-eyed, unbent —
He’s the one coming back.
