When Sitting On The Bench Is Better Than Stepping Up To Bat

Freshman year Phys Ed class, and I stood in left field, filled with dread as I hoped no hits would come my way. I had played left field years earlier on a softball league and had actually been a pretty good little ball player. I remember receiving an end-of-the-season trophy for having the least number of strike-outs. I was an extremely active, skinny girl that possessed a decent amount of athletic ability---I had perfected the volleyball serve and could shoot lots of hoops playing around with cousins and friends.

But none of that sports capacity revealed itself in my Phys Ed class. I was shy, hated school, and felt awkward in my gym clothes at 88 pounds and my 5'2 height, surrounded by my much larger peers. Any athletic potential I possessed melted into clumsiness when the nine weeks of dreaded high school gym class rolled around.

So when my classmate (Dustin---I still remember his name) stepped up to home plate, socked the ball with the bat and sent it flying into left field, I stuck my glove out---and the flying softball landed -smack- in the crook of my arm. The game stopped as the teacher and classmates yelled frantically, "Are you alright?!" and as Dustin pleaded defensively, "I didn't mean to hit her!"

Pain radiated down my arm. I instantly knew it was no minor injury. But I winced and held the agony inside, nodded to my classmates that I was alright. "Yes," I responded when they asked again, "Are you sure you're okay?"

But I wasn't. I was badly hurt, and I knew it. But what did I do? I kept it inside. I hid the pain. And when our fielders finally got three outs on the opposing team, I walked to the dugout and took my place in line---I went up to bat. With a severely wounded arm, I stepped up to home plate and took my turn at bat.

Base hit.

I'm sure I worsened my already serious injury.

The next afternoon in last period geometry class, agonizing pain sent my bruised arm into spasms, and I stared quietly at my desk, biting my lip to keep from crying, striving not to throw up or pass out, and clutching the bent arm I could no longer straighten out.

I wound up in the emergency room that afternoon.

Twenty years later.....twenty years!! And I still have that same tendency: I still try to hide my pain. I still say I'm alright when I'm not. I still step up to swing a heavy bat when I should be on the bench recuperating.

And then, later, I wonder why I'm crying and overwhelmed and hurting.
Humans, after all, have only a limited capacity for pain.

I'm thirty-five, but still learning to let myself
cry when I need to cry,
allow myself to take a nap or sleep in when I need the rest,
tell someone when my emotions feel close to imploding.
I'm still learning to admit to myself or anyone around me,
"I'm too hurt right now... I can't get up to bat."

What about you? 
Do you obey the signals your body and emotions give you when it is time to 
step back, heal, and regroup? 
Or do you forge ahead and step up to bat, 
even when you are badly broken and in need of care?