Or, not...we'll see...two days later and I've figured out what to start with. This:
221.5. With clothes on, yes; but not that much clothing.
That is what I just weighed in at a few minutes ago.
That is what I just weighed in at a few minutes ago.
It's been an interesting week all around. I've had some major accomplishments, causing temporary feelings of jubilation. I've also been caught by some major pratfalls. Overall I just feel tired. Weary, really...Two months ago I began writing in a composition notebook which I call my symptom journal. I decided rather than struggle to answer questions when I go to the doctor and I can't tell him how I've been (usually because I can't remember the day before, much less the previous month) I should start tracking things. When I'm anxious I write about feeling anxious, or upset, or stressed out, etc etc etc. And when I do remember to use it I find myself tackling some big issues. When...
The first entry was on March 9th.
It was uncharacteristically short.
It was a few simple lines
about how I was struggling
with feeling anxious whenever I had to leave the house.
Here it is now the 15th of May and I am turning into an oversized hermit crab.
With a very stuff-filled house that I stay tucked under
rather than taking with me from place to place.
I've become a comfortable recluse,
sitting on my couch hour after hour,
occasionally breaking to graze through the kitchen
in search of sugary foods. Or cheese.
My mother raised a good point to me recently. Something that brought to mind old concerns and set the foundation for new resolve. Background there, first.
Mom: is Doctor Mom most everyday. She is a busy and amazing woman. Strong, intelligent, witty, compassionate. She is the full time caretaker for my father. She is less than two weeks his elder, but she is such a vibrant woman that no one believes she is as old as she is. Her hair is sprayed with white threads now, but her laughter and insight give her the air of woman sage not a marginalized crone, which a woman who has seen the hardships she has could easily be.
My father: he is now a quiet man, though he was not always when I was young. His health is confusing for everyone, his doctors included, and he looks like an old man many days. Although, he wouldn't be one if he had taken better care of himself in his middle age. Please bear that in mind -- it is relevant to my current situation.
When Mom is not tending to my dad's medical needs she is doing our dishes, washing our clothes, playing chauffeur for the household, balancing the checkbooks, ad nauseam. On the side she does free lance proof-reading and copy editing. And she's a writer. In her spare time. Which she doesn't actually have.
Mom also takes care of me when I'm not doing well. Yes, I am an adult and well old enough to do for myself. But as of late the Bipolar and the OCD have been debilitating and I have needed a driver and chaperon, a decision maker, an observer, and someone whose memory falters less often than mine.
It was uncharacteristically short.
It was a few simple lines
about how I was struggling
with feeling anxious whenever I had to leave the house.
Here it is now the 15th of May and I am turning into an oversized hermit crab.
With a very stuff-filled house that I stay tucked under
rather than taking with me from place to place.
I've become a comfortable recluse,
sitting on my couch hour after hour,
occasionally breaking to graze through the kitchen
in search of sugary foods. Or cheese.
My mother raised a good point to me recently. Something that brought to mind old concerns and set the foundation for new resolve. Background there, first.
Mom: is Doctor Mom most everyday. She is a busy and amazing woman. Strong, intelligent, witty, compassionate. She is the full time caretaker for my father. She is less than two weeks his elder, but she is such a vibrant woman that no one believes she is as old as she is. Her hair is sprayed with white threads now, but her laughter and insight give her the air of woman sage not a marginalized crone, which a woman who has seen the hardships she has could easily be.
My father: he is now a quiet man, though he was not always when I was young. His health is confusing for everyone, his doctors included, and he looks like an old man many days. Although, he wouldn't be one if he had taken better care of himself in his middle age. Please bear that in mind -- it is relevant to my current situation.
When Mom is not tending to my dad's medical needs she is doing our dishes, washing our clothes, playing chauffeur for the household, balancing the checkbooks, ad nauseam. On the side she does free lance proof-reading and copy editing. And she's a writer. In her spare time. Which she doesn't actually have.
Mom also takes care of me when I'm not doing well. Yes, I am an adult and well old enough to do for myself. But as of late the Bipolar and the OCD have been debilitating and I have needed a driver and chaperon, a decision maker, an observer, and someone whose memory falters less often than mine.
It is Sunday evening now.
This post is still waiting in anxious patience
in the EDIT window. Paragraph
after paragraph of an incomplete thought --
a perfect illustration of my point.
This post is still waiting in anxious patience
in the EDIT window. Paragraph
after paragraph of an incomplete thought --
a perfect illustration of my point.
What will it take? My mother raised a good point to me recently. She suggested we ask the doctors to do blood sugar labs. Diabetes runs in my family. It is the source of my father's medical woes. And there is a strong correlation between the onset of Type II and one of the medications I am taking now. It's the one causing all the weight gain...The last time I was on this medication my blood glucose was at the threshold of 'pre-diabetic' levels...Now I am back on the medicine, six years later and starting to display a few alarming medical symptoms. All of that got me thinking...
If I was told I had diabetes I would not be my father. I would be diligent and educate myself, changing my diet and exercise to regain control of my health. But should it take becoming a diabetic to become a more responsible tenant of my body? What will it take?
If I was told I had diabetes I would not be my father. I would be diligent and educate myself, changing my diet and exercise to regain control of my health. But should it take becoming a diabetic to become a more responsible tenant of my body? What will it take?
I want to be healthy.
I want to be happy.
I am well aware that the two are tied together.
I am always so ready to make the change,
to be better and love myself more.
And I am always so ready
to start doing it tomorrow...next week.
I want to be happy.
I am well aware that the two are tied together.
I am always so ready to make the change,
to be better and love myself more.
And I am always so ready
to start doing it tomorrow...next week.
Tomorrow is a new day. Trite, but true. And tomorrow is the start of a new week; the perfect time to start a new pattern. Tomorrow is the day I will become
not a new me, but a better me.
I want to be more dedicated to taking of the me I am.
I'm the only me I have.
I want to be more dedicated to taking of the me I am.
I'm the only me I have.
Tomorrow I want to become accountable to myself, to strengthen my resolve, to take responsibility...what will it take tomorrow for that plan to stick?
More likely, what will it take tomorrow for me to excuse myself from following through? What will it take tomorrow for me let myself off the hook? What it take tomorrow for me to become a self-fulfilling prophesy?
What will it take tomorrow for me to make that choice to discard
my old patterns,
to reclaim myself,
and be changed?
More likely, what will it take tomorrow for me to excuse myself from following through? What will it take tomorrow for me let myself off the hook? What it take tomorrow for me to become a self-fulfilling prophesy?
What will it take tomorrow for me to make that choice to discard
my old patterns,
to reclaim myself,
and be changed?
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