It seems there are very few things I won’t do to for attention.

As the third of four children, my entire life has been a screaming fit directed at fixing the gaze of my parents, extended family members, teachers and even total strangers squarely on me. After more than two decades of such behaviour, I have become acutely aware of my ways. Although the events of the previous weekend have revealed that my “look at me-ing” has become so deeply ingrained in my behaviour patterns, it is now subconscious.

Now, Rational Dannielle would never fall from a horse on purpose, but I can’t help that Subconscious Dannielle far more devious and ruthless. She’s also a cunning little minx who thinks about the long term, because the initial fall was only Stage One of show pony plan. Stage Two had plenty more to give the next day.

There was a delay of some hours before I hit the emergency room. It wasn’t until the next afternoon when I realised the only way my hand wasn’t in pain made it look like I was groping myself in public when it occurred to me that this was not normal and definitely was not suitable for work. So I had my roommate drop me off at the emergency room.

“I’m sorry to say it, but you’ve broken your wist,” the doctor told me. But she had no cause to apologise. This was extraordinary news.

I’ve never had a broken bone before. I used to watch enviously as my primary school friends were showered with attention when they would appear on a Monday morning with a broken bone from their adventurous weekend pursuits. Playing sport or doing literally anything on The Farm boasted huge rewards for my friends: immediate sympathy, special treatment and a living graffiti wall. They would come to school plastered up and I would stew in my tidy tray. But apparently my desire for attention of any kind was over ridden by my lack of interest in doing things, because I continued honing my favourite crafts every weekend: revealing in my solitude and pretending I was gifted because I was of a slightly higher than adequate intelligence for my grade (first one out of a class of less than 20 kids to be able to read? Obviously I am the second coming of Stephen Hawking). So when the doctor asked if I wanted a sling, I didn’t hesitate.

A sling was like a giant neon light telling the world I was injured and deserved concerned glances and looks of jealousy-tainted admiration from those who asked how I earned my sleeve of honour. Like a child who would throw sand in the eyes of an innocent fellow pre-schooler so the teacher would glance sideways admire her sand castle (me) or a the college student who jumped at the chance to be the only girl to do a keg stand a “frat party” (also me), I was happy to wear the equivalent to a giant red flashing arrow pointing out my minimal fracture.

And let’s be honest here, I didn’t do much to make my condition much better. It didn’t put ice on my wrist because it was too damn cold in my house already. I did put a compression bandage on it, but that was merely because I was hosting a house party, and I wasn’t about to let my cool injury go unnoticed. That bandage was about as medically beneficial as adding chlorophyll extract to water and just as much about showing off. When the doctor asked if I had been taking pain medication, I had to fudge the truth a bit. “I was going to take ibuprofen,” I told her, “but I didn’t have any at home so I just went to sleep.” I didn’t want to tell her my pain mediation was a mixture of cider, vodka and medicinal tequila. As cool as this doctor was, I doubted whether she’d approve of my treatment plan.

Hmm. I think I need professional help… just think of how sorry people will feel for me!