Pain is weakness, leaving the body. Exercise, casting out the ghost of mamby pamby momma's boy. Every drop of sweat in peace saves a drop of blood in war. Train harder! No, HARDER! Blood makes the grass grow!
Must hit sick. Must hit sick. Must hit sick.
In the darkness I must move quickly. I square up to the pell, count the steps, time my breathing. Let it rip. The pain and shock reverberates up my arm. My feet skid on gravel for purchase. Get in, strike, get out, shield up. And for God sake, breathe!
Ignore the pain, go in again.
Keep at it until the pain goes away, until you are stronger and stronger still.
Ignore the pain. Pain is all mind over matter. If you don't mind, it don't matter.
Must hit sick, must hit sick.
Why is the pain not going away?
Because it isn't good pain. Because it is a warning that something is wrong and my macheesemo is hiding the fact that I am getting old and old things break.
The doctor has officially declared that I have his first documented case of Broad Sword Elbow. Says so on my chart.
I'm a medical curiosity!
My arm is healing up nicely and I may begin peel training again soon. I know now than to just power through the pain and to listen to what my body tells me. Ice is my friend.
Meanwhile, I have given up on my little phone game. I am trying to isolate and identify all the little things that are bleeding away my time and replacing them with more, brain friendly activities, such as writing, or working on the bug.
Yes, more reading. Reading leads to writing. Writing is good.