And the moon is the only light we see

I just poured myself through my front door. It's officially a different day than when I left. It is also officially six weeks since I suffered this stupid injury.

Remember when we started this journey at week 2.5? I was convinced I'd be healed by now. Heck, I was told by the ER doctor, my physio and my trainer that I'd be fixed by now. How comforting is it now that we still don't exactly know what's wrong with me? A loaded question, let me clarify...what's wrong with my ankle!

It was night two of yoga training after getting my requisition sent to St. Joe's for my MRI, and getting hacked at by an overly smiley dental hygienist. I could barely walk up the stairs I was so sleepy, but I managed to stay in the studio for four very sweaty hours.

Remember my pin straight hair? Supposedly it has a very curly mind of it's own in heated rooms.

Look at those pearly whites!

I somehow dragged my ass through a flow class as well. I shouldn't have done it, I was in a lot of pain, and ended up crying on my mat in frustration. Thank goodness for the extreme heat, it just looked like I was sweating instead of being a baby. Unlike last Friday's class there was no positive self talk, all that time was used reminding myself to breathe. I was not connected to anything but my pain and my ankle. It is beyond frustrating when things that I once loved now make me crazy (yoga) or worse, I'm crazy because I can't even attempt things I loved (running).

Crazy or not I managed to get through the 75 min class, so you know what that means:

Do you think emotional distress is worth another $0.50?

I'm going to sleep (read: pass out) tonight because I'm drained on all levels. Baking time in the morning should kill any emotional hangover I may wake up with.