I confess I used to blog. A lot.
Of course I also used to bake, make chocolates, sew, do yoga, run, play video games, smoke, drink, and write. I used to do a lot of things. Some healthy, some not so much. I am a habitual hobbyist...a disordered and distracted personality. I switch vices like a hooker on commission.
Recently however, I have discovered several of these vices tend drift back into my world more readily and consistently than others. I run, I write and I love to play in my quaint little inner-city garden. I'm not particularly gifted at any of these activities. But they keep me sane mostly.
I'm not a naturally happy person. I'm mostly disenchanted with the world and few things bring me joy. I have been known from time-to-time to laugh at people when they fall down and to eat small children for breakfast. I am a suffering miserablist.
I stopped running a while ago. Life got busy and I gained thirty pounds. I had never gained weight before. I didn't recognize my body and genuinely believed I was being chased, on a regular basis, by someone else's ass. Seriously, I would often see it creeping up behind me out of my periphery and I would jump as if being stalked by a shapeless beach ball. We won't even discuss the boobs - though I will say if you're looking for them they can be found hiding in my arm pits.
So it's back to running. And geepers, I had forgotten how hard those first few weeks and initial steps are. Running freaking sucks donkey balls. At least in the beginning.
I know in time I will get my groove back and find my dull and sort of happy running place - that place where the sweaty skin feels like a thousand faeries had a giant orgasm all over you, that place where the lungs feel big and full and healthy, that place where the posture is straight and there's a natural bounce in the feet and legs.
When I stopped running two years ago I had injured my right hip. A stress fracture and a royally messed up IT band combined with lower back stiffness and weak core muscles put me out of commission for a long time. Physiotherapy and yoga helped. But a crap load of negative self talk and a plummeting self image took hold. I stopped running, I stopped reading and writing. I stopped playing in the garden. And then I met Himself. Himself and I descended quickly into a very explosive routine. Adventure, heat, extreme cold, and lots of bad food and wine led to the weight gain and sedentary sadness. Unhealthiness abound.
Turns out, extracting oneself from a toxic relationship shares a lot in common with extracting oneself from sloth.
Recently I've been writing again, and reading. Both have helped me clear my mind - and instead of deeply threatening sadness and shame I have found my familiar state of melancholy and cynicism. That's MY happy place.
Spring is here, and I'm back in my quaint inner-city garden. I like to grow things. I'm not always good at it. But I enjoy the process. It's kind of like running - it's a slow sometimes unpredictable grind that takes some attention and perspective. It is undeniable, even as a miserablist, that both have a tremendous impact on my mental health. And soon, once a few other things are back to normal, It's back to yoga and core training. But I'm going slow. I figure if my roses can take all spring, summer and fall to bloom...so can I.
And...I'm going to write about it. All of it. And not in any particular order. Chances are I'll never be skinny again and I will never be an award winning gardener. But I miss feeling healthy and putting my hands in the dirt - metaphorically and literally. I want a thousand faeries to spray sweat all over my flabby body and I want roses by October. I don't think I'm expecting too much.
V
Of course I also used to bake, make chocolates, sew, do yoga, run, play video games, smoke, drink, and write. I used to do a lot of things. Some healthy, some not so much. I am a habitual hobbyist...a disordered and distracted personality. I switch vices like a hooker on commission.
Recently however, I have discovered several of these vices tend drift back into my world more readily and consistently than others. I run, I write and I love to play in my quaint little inner-city garden. I'm not particularly gifted at any of these activities. But they keep me sane mostly.
I'm not a naturally happy person. I'm mostly disenchanted with the world and few things bring me joy. I have been known from time-to-time to laugh at people when they fall down and to eat small children for breakfast. I am a suffering miserablist.
I stopped running a while ago. Life got busy and I gained thirty pounds. I had never gained weight before. I didn't recognize my body and genuinely believed I was being chased, on a regular basis, by someone else's ass. Seriously, I would often see it creeping up behind me out of my periphery and I would jump as if being stalked by a shapeless beach ball. We won't even discuss the boobs - though I will say if you're looking for them they can be found hiding in my arm pits.
So it's back to running. And geepers, I had forgotten how hard those first few weeks and initial steps are. Running freaking sucks donkey balls. At least in the beginning.I know in time I will get my groove back and find my dull and sort of happy running place - that place where the sweaty skin feels like a thousand faeries had a giant orgasm all over you, that place where the lungs feel big and full and healthy, that place where the posture is straight and there's a natural bounce in the feet and legs.
When I stopped running two years ago I had injured my right hip. A stress fracture and a royally messed up IT band combined with lower back stiffness and weak core muscles put me out of commission for a long time. Physiotherapy and yoga helped. But a crap load of negative self talk and a plummeting self image took hold. I stopped running, I stopped reading and writing. I stopped playing in the garden. And then I met Himself. Himself and I descended quickly into a very explosive routine. Adventure, heat, extreme cold, and lots of bad food and wine led to the weight gain and sedentary sadness. Unhealthiness abound.
Turns out, extracting oneself from a toxic relationship shares a lot in common with extracting oneself from sloth.
Recently I've been writing again, and reading. Both have helped me clear my mind - and instead of deeply threatening sadness and shame I have found my familiar state of melancholy and cynicism. That's MY happy place.
Spring is here, and I'm back in my quaint inner-city garden. I like to grow things. I'm not always good at it. But I enjoy the process. It's kind of like running - it's a slow sometimes unpredictable grind that takes some attention and perspective. It is undeniable, even as a miserablist, that both have a tremendous impact on my mental health. And soon, once a few other things are back to normal, It's back to yoga and core training. But I'm going slow. I figure if my roses can take all spring, summer and fall to bloom...so can I.
And...I'm going to write about it. All of it. And not in any particular order. Chances are I'll never be skinny again and I will never be an award winning gardener. But I miss feeling healthy and putting my hands in the dirt - metaphorically and literally. I want a thousand faeries to spray sweat all over my flabby body and I want roses by October. I don't think I'm expecting too much.
V
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