I realized the other day that I’m unhappy. Not depressed, miserable, anxiety riddled, or on the verge of a meltdown, but just that general feeling of melancholy that means I spend my days in a touchy state of unhappiness. I may be doing worlds better as far as my illness goes. But the coping mechanisms I relied upon to get through my three-year relapse–basically bourbon, Taco Bell, and watching excessive amounts of television–are still very much ruling my day-to-day existence. My bad habits, and the results of said bad habits, are making me unhappy.
But this is good. Because unhappy I can work with. Unhappy I can do something about it. Unhappy doesn’t mean I’m descending into a cesspool of misery with no ability to pull myself out. Unhappy isn’t me freaking out because I’m too sick to exert a modicum of control over my own existence. And unhappy certainly doesn’t indicate I’m so full of anger, it’s all I can see. Lord knows I’ve spent enough of my life in those places. No, unhappy simply means I’ve grown complacent with my life. And as a result, I’m making some not-so-great choices in order to distract myself.
Now that I recognize it, I suppose it’s time to get to work. I’ve got to clean up the bad habits being so sick for so long left me with. But where to start when, like, everything needs to be fixed? Yes, I may have more energy, but I also have more pain now because I’m doing more. That delicate balance of taking care of me and taking care of life is something I’ve got to continue to respect if I want to remain on this trajectory…
This new inspiration to get my crap together is most likely inspired by epic amounts of indulgence over the holidays. My answer: on Thursday I walked/ran on the treadmill for 23 minutes. So much exertion caused a vicious stomachache of epic proportions. I had to come home and lay on the floor in writhing pain for a while. Then I was shaky and weak the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Sigh…I forgot how hard this is. Nevertheless, I did eat better, stayed off the sauce, and managed to annihilate myself by doing a little exercise. No, the laundry didn’t get done. But that’s what tomorrow is for, isn’t it? Provided I didn’t just send myself into an epic flare.
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