Determined

One Day at a Time

The coke did not explode the other day. In fact it was still drinkable . . . about room temperature (even though the bottle itself was starting to get warm), and it still had quite a bit of fizz left to it.

It’s pitiful how little I write in here these days. There’s just so much going on that I feel like I can’t rest long enough to hear myself think. I hate it. I want to be a little kid again . . . no work, no responsibilities, just an endless summer of fun . . . doing whatever the hell I want to do whenever the hell I want to do it. But that’s not life. That’s not reality.

Quite a bit of sleep problems but they come and go . . . get a little better, a little worse, and back and forth . . . very situational depending on my work schedule and stress load. Anxiety is part of the problem. There’s got to be a solution for this endless feeling of fight or flight I seem to experience. My brain always finds something to worry about. It’s how I’m hard wired, and I’m not sure how I got that way, other than years and years of practice. I had a good day at work today but I pissed off the boss I guess. I knew it wouldn’t sit too well with him when I told him I refused to lift anything heavy just yet . . . I don’t remember if I said anything in here about it but about a week and a half ago I had massive back pain, probably due to improper lifting at work, and I just don’t want to aggravate it and risk making it a longer term injury. My boss basically told me that heavy lifting was part of my job description, that I couldn’t come to work and tell him what I was and wasn’t going to be doing, that if it was that bad I should have called in or (longer term) taken a medical leave of absence? WTF? Whatever man, it was never so bad I would have had to do any of that. I simply think it’s prudent not to put myself in a dangerous position . . . my health is more fucking important than my job. So be it. I felt kind of guilty, I could feel the self pity and the sulkiness swell up within me (and this can turn to anger and resentment if allowed to fester for some time). Instead of this feeling, I wish I could turn into a quiet confidence that I indeed committed no wrong and I have a fucking RIGHT to not harm myself any further. It’s not like I make these kinds of excuses all the time and he knows it. It’s a one time thing. Within a few days I should be 100% again and from now on, no improper lifting, and I’m going to take the time to get help if I need it . . . with lifting 55 inch TV’s and huge pieces of furniture.

My mom got me a book to read, supposed to help with positive self talk, but I worry my problem is deeper, that it’s physical/chemical. But my mom just tells me that that’s nonsense and I’m telling myself negative things when I say this. I just don’t know. She believes there is a natural/psychological/spiritual solution for just about everything and I think she’s also afraid of me ever getting on meds because of my history of chemical dependency.  I’m determined to find a solution to my anxiety problems no matter how what it takes . . . I have to learn what I can control and take charge of (change things to better my situation), and accept what I can’t.

God, I really wish I could start the running back. I miss the adventure. But just like a social life, I can’t seem to have the running as long as my schedule is irregular and my anxiety level is high. Strangely, the running never seemed to do much to relieve my stress in the past . . . perhaps temporarily, in that brief moment of "ahhh . . ." after a run. I pray to God for a better job . . . better schedule and better paying. But I feel stuck (as always) . . . I’ve got the insurance now and I will lose all of my benefits if I start somewhere new. Unless it’s a salaried, professional position, the move just won’t be worth it in most cases.

-AR

PS:  I was originally going to title this entry "Pitiful", due to my discussion in the second paragraph, but I thought how ridiculously negative that title is.  So I’m going with the title "Determined" taken from the last sentence of the fourth paragraph.