One year ago I broke my ankle.
In a motorcycle accident.
That was when I realised who cares about.
And who does not.
I declared that day that the man that put his name on mine, and that was glued in me by blood, was emotinally dead. My father is emotionally a jerk and he died of coldness.
Friends, family, people reaching me by mobile ... worried because I stood there for three days while convincing the doctor to not put a pin in my ankle.
I stood there for twelve hours without a pain killer, took twelve hours to get medicine and a room.
So I realised that if I had a child I would like to bring her;him close to my heart.
Weeeell, after 40 days without step my feet on the floor, and my gramps with 93 years old waking up earlier to prepare my food, and help me shower and everything ... get addicted to the morfine, realising it and then let it goes ... I've changed a lot in my life.
The mask of people fell I don't stand hyipocrates, my ankle hurts when they start the bullshit... My blood goes to my heart and my face gets red I stard to sweat ... like hulk ...
So is better to not have contact.
Everytime I step and was walking around with my bengal, I remembered that he does not care. He never asked... he is a jerk.
A dead jerk.
So it is an structural issue ... took me three months to get better... and because my trainner said to me: you are afraid of step because it hurts. Well, you already know that is going to hurt, so pretend it does not, so fight it, and it shall pass.And it did. Because I double my exercises... and get back to my swim and bike, and drop the bengal... and it was healing day by day ... but I did not forgot that pain each step ... is written in my blood, in my bones.
To forgive yourself and walk on, is betterto cut the evil removing its roots.
So my ortomolecular treatment is a success.
No signal of that man in my aura.
The dead never change.
