It's not my New Year.

I don't measure the new year on January first. My new year is July 26, and I count the birthdays of my hip. I do not make resolutions, because I have no idea what the circumstances will be of anything; a resolution indicates that your circumstances will not change.

Last night, travellight and I were on the way home from a movie when she began talking about her sister-in-law, who sustained an injury similar to mine several years ago. Marcy, the sister-in-law, can run. She is not using pain medication, and has resumed her normal life. She did a full year of physical therapy, every day, after her accident. Susan expressed frustration that my doctor had not pushed more PT, had somehow perhaps failed in remaking me in my old image.

I suppose it is really my failure, then. Having two small children to care for did not allow me the luxury of daily physical therapy (although I have continued to do my exercises and stretches) even if my insurance had covered it. My doctor did point out that PT is good for me, but he reminded me that the greater part of it is just living, being able to drive and walk and bend to pick up something I've dropped. My injury is considered catastrophic, and therefore the goal is reduced to me walking again; after that, everything else comes as it comes. I have learned that working hard might improve my abilities, but certain activities backfire and leave me nearly incapacitated for days. My orthopedist warned me that even now, if I overextend, I will likely just wind up sore and still unable to do what I was trying to do. My hip is basically arthritic now; physical therapy will not smooth the joint. I don't know why Marcy's equally catastrophic injury has had less far-reaching consequences. I don't know. Yes, it pisses me off--not that Marcy, whom I do not even know, is able, but that I am not--but there is no one to blame.

I don't know why Marcy can play tennis and I still need to use my cane sometimes. Perhaps I am weaker.

I never noticed before how prevalent the "strength of will" concept is in injury-lit. People say they said I'd never walk again, but I refused to give up, and lo, paralysis is temporary, a bother, overcome by God's will and the balm of determination. Our conclusion is that those people who remain in wheelchairs, those on ventilators, those who cannot move below the chest--their will is not strong enough, or they are not favored by God.

It's total bullshit, of course.

There is no way to tell why some of us heal better, why some walk and run and why some are hobbled for life. It's not strength of will, and it certainly isn't because God gives a damn about which of us gets fished out of the crippled masses. God didn't knock me out of the attic; God didn't do this to me to make me stronger by making me weaker.

There are myriad reasons that Marcy is running without medication and I am limping with it. Perhaps her persistence has made her stronger, or perhaps I am just weaker. Perhaps my joint is frozen and hers is not; perhaps the tiny cells just knit together differently in us.

Of course I feel weak because I am on pain-lessening medication. I realize that if I were to stop taking it, I would suffer withdrawal like a recreational user. Do you think I like that, knowing that in some ways I am no less addicted than a junkie in the street? I take the minimum, and there are days that it feels like I have no relief at all, yet I am reliant upon it without the luxury of a high. Isn't that how tolerance works? Do you think that if my will were stronger, I would be running?

I am not weak; I am not strong. I am a regular person who got broken, and sometimes there is more to fix than screws and bolts and staples can hold together.