The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Or so I have read.

Thank the gods, Blogger has not signed me out of my account due to inactivity. I don't think I can find where I wrote down my password info and although I know I could get it sent to me it would require signing into my email. Jaysus....I can't face THAT.

So, I've had my appointment with my counselor. In a couple of weeks I'll have an appointment with the doctor and get a prescription for my meds, but right now we're operating without a med net. That sounded so much funnier in my head.

The counselor (who has an awesome name I wish I could share) helped me come up with a few ideas to start the process of self-healing. Getting back to writing here is one. Another idea is joining a book club.

There's several options there, but the most promising (meaning the one I'm most likely to actually leave the house for) is the science fiction book club at library in the next town. So.

Tomorrow I have to call the book club discussion leader. Because in the directions on the website, the library politely asked that you call the book club discussion leader if you wished to attend. And good lords, I don't want to offend my fellow SF geeks.

So tomorrow I must work up the courage to call the number listed. So I may commune with my people.

Bipolar Happens. Usually right on top of your head, when you're trying to get other shit done.

I have a mood disorder.

I'm Bipolar. Type II.

I probably also have anxiety disorder, but I've never bothered to ask for a diagnosis on that.

I meant this to save to a draft, but I've already published it so...what the hell. There it is. I'm going to edit it later and add some informative links and pictures and shit.

It's quiet in here, but not quiet enough.

So I'm having difficulties. I'm trying to fix them and they are taking all my energies.

Just when I thought I had something figured out...the rules seemed to change. Again. Only slightly but enough.

I don't know if I should explain more. Not that its some big secret, I'm not trying to be mysterious or tragic or anything. It's just boring. More of the same, only more more.

I have to make myself leave the house now and I don't want to. But I do want to see my sons and they are an hour away so I have to go.

My personal curious case of less is more.

Here's something I have noticed about myself.

I've had nearly three weeks off of work now. Three weeks in between jobs. I knew I had two paychecks coming from my last job and my husband has a good job so I could afford to take a little time off. A vacation of sorts. I thought I would enjoy this, resting up, getting up whenever I wanted, doing household chores leisurely, reading anytime I wanted.

I found I did not enjoy it so much.

I found sleeping in made me feel part of the day was wasted, even though I hate getting up early. Not getting up with my husband meant I didn't get to see him until the evening.  Not that we do anything spectacular with the early morning fifteen or twenty minutes we have together. We're both bleary-eyed, drinking coffee and smoking, occasionally talking about what we'll do later on that day or what we'll do together in the evening. After he leaves for work I go out and run or ride my bike or start on the writing I want to do for the day.

So I didn't enjoy sleeping in...but...I couldn't get my ass up out of bed. I slept in but got no benefit from it.

I wonder how that feels. Sleeping weightless.
Those lights would probably bother me.
Sleeping in Space is Easy, But There's No Shower

During this three week vacation I could of course still get up with him if I'd wanted to. I tried to do it.  I'd set my alarm but I'd just shut it off. I guess some part of my subconscious didn't deem it necessary and I couldn't drag myself out of bed as I had when I still had to budget my time and energy for work.

I didn't get household chores done because...and I do not claim any logical sense to this statement...there was always more time to do them. I hate these chores; they are mind-numbing. Tedious. Just fucking boring. For some reason they give me no sense of accomplishment, no over all feeling of order. They're just another boring thing I have to do and if I have plenty of time to do them they can always wait until later. I have books to read, god damnit. There are other worlds with far more interesting things going on in them than having to wash the dishes for the one thousand and eleventh time.

Oh, Allie Brosh. You are so perfect, just the way you are.
picture credit: Hyperbole and a Half

Not that I don't procrastinate with chores when I'm working an outside job too. I do. Just not to the extent I did in the past three weeks.

I was trying to explain this strange break in logic to TheMan last night. After I'd spoken to my new boss and gotten a set schedule for the week...I suddenly found it much easier to come home and start cleaning up. It just wasn't as boring. What. The Hell.

TheMan proposed the idea that perhaps I now feel I have "a purpose" again, over and above that of caring for the house and family.



Purpose...I haz it again?

I respectfully submitted that being a household caretaker is a fine and noble purpose in and of itself.  I don't like the idea that I can't find joy and fulfillment in caring for my family. But apparently I can't.

What is a purpose? The general definition is, "the reason for which something is done or created or for which something exists."  Hm. Okay. While I really do love being a massage therapist and helping people achieve health and renewal, I don't know that it's my purpose in life. I'd much rather my purpose be telling stories for people to read.

Please keep in mind, o dearest reader, this is subjective. This is all about me. I am not making my experience a corollary to any other person's, male or female.

So, if I'd rather my purpose be writing, shouldn't I have been, oh, I don't know...writing?

But I wasn't. Not in the way I'd wanted to. My writing has suffered on vacation. Shouldn't I have gotten MORE writing done? I had plenty of time. I thought my days would be filled with hours of clacking laptop keys. I thought my stories would pour out of my fingers with ease and grace.  But instead...my characters stop talking to me. They ceased their silly, knees-bent, running-about, advancing behavior. I got nothing done in those three weeks. I was more creatively productive when I had less time to write. How does that work?

Mr. Productive. I bet he doesn't need an outside job to get his characters to move.
Stephen King: The 'Craft' Of Writing Horror Stories

So...in order to create the drive I need to fulfill my personal inner purpose...I, for some reason, also need outer purpose...over and above the insular life of the household.

Huh. I sort of feel I ought to be able to create drive on my own. But I have not been able to. In fact having no job sort of paralyzed me. I wasn't earning any money and felt no need and no desire to leave the house. I hate not contributing to the general household through earnings.

Okay, I'm tired of pondering now. And I have to go do stuff.

Pictorial inspiration for travel and fiction.

I'm thinking of having my dragon people live in mountains like this. Obviously the carvings on their entrances will be kept up better. Check out the faces on the rock in the lower left hand corner of the picture.

Rock cut tombs - Turkey

Myra  is an ancient town in Lycia, where the small town of Kale is situated today in present day Antalya Province of Turkey. It was located on the river Myros , in the fertile alluvial plain between Alaca Dağ, the Massikytos range and the Aegean Sea. - Myra Wikipedia page

"Initiation Well" - Sintra, Portugal
More info about its construction at Abandonedography.

Thinking of something like this for the human religious orders in the book. The orders will be mixed.
Picture Credit: National Geographic
I'm adding the link in the interest of giving credit where it's due,
but if you click the link it will ask you to register to sign in or continue.
 

Picture Credit: Amazing Facts



Stepped well.  Village of Abhaneri near Jaipur in Rajasthan, India.
 





Roman Baths - Bath, England
credit: The Roman Baths







Do you have any pictures of inspirational architecture or geography that YOU would like to share? Please do!







A slightly more motivational post than the last one.

It's raining. It's storming. Somehow this makes me feel better.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” - Dune, Frank Herbert

What do we say to the little-death? There is only one thing we say to Death.



Game of Thrones
Book credit: George R. R. Martin
Television Series credit: HBO

Couch to 5K - Week 5, Day 3 (mileage workout). This entry is not as encouraging as I'd wish it to be.

Preface: I am having a very hard time right now. Emotionally. I do not want to do anything but stay in bed and read. I don't want to do anything, go anywhere, talk to anyone.  Anytime I have to do these things I feel like screaming in my head. Don't approach me unless it's to bring me another book I haven't read yet.

I keep typing things I want to say and then deleting them because they are too much. I want to be encouraging. If other people, depressed people, find this blog while looking for exercise tips (in the random way I've found some other exercise blogs) I want them to see exercise does help. It does help. Exercise is supposed to fucking help.

Two Miles. I ran it. Slowly.

Let's get this out of the way: I ran two miles with no stopping in thirty-five minutes.  I don't have the patience to type it up the way I usually do, nice and neat. I was supposed to do this workout on either Monday or Tuesday. I waited until today. Monday I was tired. Tuesday I was really fucking tired. I had a flood day on my period and had major cramps and found out I didn't have any tampons or menstrual meds. Fuck you, running.






Wednesday. Nervous, I'm supposed to be hearing back about a job. She said she'd check my references yesterday and text me a tentative schedule. No text yet.


I have to get this damn two mile run done.  So I went out and...in the middle of the pre-run stretches I realize I forgot to put a sports bra on. I have a sports tank on, with a shelf bra, but this is not enough support. Great. Fucking great. Just run. So I run. I'm miserable. Physically I'm fine except for the hard breathing (due to smoking...it's tolerable for now, just annoying) and the mucous in my throat (same reason, spit and move on) and the ever-present pulling down feeling in my shins. Mentally...I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home the whole damn time.

At 1.7 miles (the twenty minute mark) I'm begging to go home and nearly crying. I honestly don't know why I wasn't actually crying. At that point I didn't even care if anyone saw me. I would've felt BETTER if I could cry. But I couldn't get any tears out.

Well, I just would've dehydrated anyway. I really wanted to stop. I had even resolved to stop. "I'm going to stop. I don't have to keep going, you can't make me. Twenty minutes is enough. I can stop if I want. I'm stopping; I'm walking home now."

Please realize, I'm arguing with myself, in my head, at this point.

I didn't stop. I kept running past the corner. "But if I stop, the miles win," I wailed in my head. "The miles win? What the fuck? They're miles! They're not sentient! They don't win! I'm going home at Oak. I don't want to go past Oak, you can't make me. That's twenty-eight minutes, that's enough!"

But I went past Oak. I went past Oak up to Hickory. "You gave birth twice! That was a lot harder! You can do this." "Fuck that shit! It's not like you get a choice in childbirth! The kid comes out! I want to go home!" "Christ, shut up, we're almost there." "I hate you for making me do this."

Onto Cleveland and back down to Oak to home.  I did the whole two long, hateful, fuck you, miles. Thirty-five minutes. Approximately. Somewhere on Hickory I managed to accidentally hit the stop button on the chronograph so I don't have an exact minutes and seconds time, but I know when I started.

Ben Kane, dressed as a Roman, walking Hadrian's wall.
Two miles from the end. This is something I want to do.
Except not dressed as a Roman. Just in regular clothes.

I honestly don't even really know how I did that. Mentally, I mean. Physically I was fine. In fact once I got past Oak I wasn't even physically tired. I can't say I got my endorphins, because I didn't feel good mentally, but I got a second wind. Nothing hurt, no pain in my joints, no pulling in my shins. Just some elevated breathing and spitting.

Christ, I want a fucking cigarette. I don't have any left. I have to go to the gas station if I want some.

I don't want to go out again. I'm having a very bad day. A very bad day.

It's a battle for the ages. My "drop-kick an orphan" desire to have cigarette versus my "whimpering ball of snot" desire to not leave the house again today.








I found this Diet & Exercise Diary that I bought on clearance last year and never started. I'm starting it Monday. I'm filling in the preliminary goal stuff today. I'm not going to bother counting carbs and calories and fat grams, but I do want to track what I eat. Am I getting enough veggies, how did what I ate yesterday affect my workout today, how much caffeine am I taking in, how much water...like that.

There is space for strength training, cardio training, and "incidental" exercise, which I guess means things like when I visit my Twin in DeKalb and we take an impromptu walk around town.

This diary also has places to record sleep and sleep quality, appetite, stress, mood, and energy levels, and injuries or illnesses. I like that. That's probably why I bought it in the first place.

So I'm trying to be happy that I just ran two miles with almost no physical pain. I should be proud. I should be proud and happy. I'm trying. It's not working very well.