Tore the ICL in my left leg in a drunken demonstration of strength. I didn’t realize it was that bad, I might have mentioned to someone that my leg was sore but I didn’t think there was anything to tell anyone about. I figured I would recover in a day or two but it was painful for a couple of weeks. Years later the process completed when the ligament broke all the way through. By that time the ligament was so atrophied that re-attachment wasn’t possible.
When I was eight years old I was biking (very fast) down a hill on a narrow road in Bogotá, Colombia. My front tire went in a pothole and I lost control. I then hit the front of a house. I still remember the stucco wall coming towards me. I had slowed down enough to not crack my head open, but upon impact my front tire got bent and my body lurched forward and my labia hit the bar on the STUPID “girl bike” that I never wanted in the first place. My skin split open and I starting bleeding and covered the front of my undies with blood. It was painful as hell. I never told a soul and limped home pissed off and hurt. I told my step-mother that I had wiped out, of course, there was no hiding that since my bike was a mess, but I never told her that I cut myself. It healed well thank goodness.
This maybe doesn’t really count, but kinda-sorta fits in with the other stories…
When I broke my leg it took me about an hour to finally give in and call for help. I kept thinking I had just jarred it really bad, and that if I just gave it a few minutes I’d be able to walk it off.
Nope. I had completely crushed my tibial plateau, and it required surgery and screws and plates and weeks of recovery. Not something to just walk off, unfortunately. In my defense, it didn’t actually hurt at all unless I tried to put weight on it, so it was easy to fool myself just sitting there in the chair.