The summer when I was 6 years old, I broke my wrist. It was a pretty bad break and it happened while I was playing with some older kids in my neighborhood who I couldn’t keep up with very well. They knew they’d get in trouble if their mom found out I’d gotten hurt, so they convinced me not to make a sound while they walked me home. And I didn’t – I walked with my right hand holding my broken wrist bones of my left hand still and didn’t make a sound for about a block until I saw my older brother and finally burst into tears. From there much drama and excruciating pain ensued as I was whisked to the emergency room and separated from my parents and poked by unfriendly doctors and shoved under scary machines. When I got home, with my full arm cast and my powder blue sling I was in a state of shock and my mom made me a little cocoon on the couch and I stayed there for a couple of days before venturing to a cocoon on my bed.

Looking back on this episode now, I realize that the most traumatic part of it was the shock  of learning that my body could a) break, and b) playing could result in an inconcievable amount of pain and confusion and stress. I stayed in my cocoon on the couch for days because I was averse to any movement. My whole understanding and conception of the world had shifted — it was now a place where playing could result in great calamity and pain. My 6 year old brain could not fully process what my body had been through – I had no context for it.  How was I now supposed to navigate a world in which these things could happen? How could I go back to playing now that my eyes had been opened to the risks? Clearly, staying on the couch was better.

Eventually I ventured forth from the cocoon, but only to play cautiously by myself in the house. Of my entire childhood that’s the only period where I have memories of playing alone – without at least one of my brothers involved. One day I was playing with some toys and I had this little pink rubber dog that I was filling with water – I think it would spit water if you squeeze it or something. I accidentally dribbled a little bit of water on my cast and I went nuts. The doctor had a made a really big deal about the fact that I could never get the cast wet. I start to scream and in my mind’s eye I can clearly see myself holding my cast out in front of me staring at it wide eyed and wondering what the repercussion was going to be now that it had gotten wet, I’m sure on some level I was convinced it would be more awful pain. My older brother came bounding up the stairs followed by my mother to see what I had done to result in my shrieking, and I remember my brother’s relieved face when he realized that nothing that bad had happened. He and my mom explained to me that it wasn’t enough water to do any damage, and when nothing had changed on my cast after a few minutes I reluctantly believed them that I was fine.

I wouldn’t let anyone write or draw on my cast for weeks, afraid that it would unbalance the new relationship I’d come to with my arm – I kept it very still and it didn’t cause me any more pain. When I got the cast off, my arm was all shriveled and gross. I remember coming back from the doctors and my mom demanding that I go outside and find someone to play with  – the time for hiding was done. Time to learn how to use my arm again, and how to trust that I could play, and ride my bike and be with my brothers like I used to without falling apart. I started by enjoying grossing people out with my shriveled little arm, and in no time was back to my normal, pre-broken arm place. Except. Except for my new knowledge of the ways in which my body could betray me – could cause unimaginable pain and debilitation without warning.

For some reason, this story has been on my mind a lot lately, and I couldn’t figure out why until last night.  Last night I hung out with two good friends and then another new friend who is a cute single man. So because  he was a was cute single man, as soon as he left, we started talking about him as prospect for someone I could date. (At this point, I’m interested in getting to know him better, and that’s all I’ll commit to right now). But in the course of the conversation I had to imagine, in more detail than I have so far, dating someone new: Going on dates, going throught the process of letting him get to know me, and having to get ot know him, and all of the pitfalls and summits that come with that processes. And I suddenly felt nauseated in a way I haven’t since that that day I was dumped and spent a week throwing up. And I was surprised, b/c I’ve been dating for a LONG time, and I know the process, and sometimes it sucks and sometimes I have more energy for it than others, but I’ve never wanted to throw up at the idea of a simple date.

And then I realized, up until recently, that’s all been just playing. And then I fell, and I broke something, and I learned how much pain and drama and calamity can result from just playing. And like the experience when I was 6, the most salient point is the shock that that kind of pain can come from inside my body, and the sense that I won’t be able to anticipate or stop it from happening next time.  

Which of course isn’t true. After I got my cast off, I was a little more careful with how I played, and with whom. And I when I got hurt again it didn’t seem as bad, because my baseline had shifted and my context for pain had grown. And I suppose the same will be true for dating now.

But you know what else? I was having a lot of fun right before I fell, both times, and I’ll probably still be seduced by that kind of fun in the future. I just probably won’t be as shocked if calamity follows.