Getting better all the time
I will have to admit. It is harder to write when you feel well. this is a good thing.
Sometimes I find the most useful measure of increasing wellness to be the repitition of a task I have done seasonally. In specific, today I am thinking of riding my bike to work. I ride my bike to work when the weather is fair. I also live in Boston which means that I do not ride my bike to work for substantial portions of the year. I began riding again this week, after a layoff since November.
I was reminded this week that ast year, as recently as november, my bikes to work were a chore. I recall that my body would complain day after day as I rode through the fatique of illness. That pressing heavy, ever present lasssitude that settled into my bones in 1998, and has not left since. I recall sitting in the seat, and being careful to shift to preserve what was left of my tattered nerves.
I recalled, this week, by comparison, how I used to concentrate to hold my mind still. I needed to be vigilant to suppress the racing, spiralling thoughts, in attempts to maintian a safe eye on traffic. It was like living ina fog. Things would suddenly and violently come into view, and then dissapear again into the murk. It was frightening, and abrupt, and things had only a short life span before they faded and died. My focus, my attention span, was at best a few seconds.
Today, for instance, when I rode in, I was able to compare the experiences of just a few months ago. I felt that way so often, that I could recall exactly the experience, and because the two rides were seperated by so many months, I was able to truly appreciate the improvement. My legs were fine. I had the energy to keep pushing, and when I got to work, I felt...fine. [author's note: it is very difficult to explain normalcy. For this reason I think most doctors make the mistake of assuming that a mentally ill person is really fine, and wants to achieve a state of super health where they feel no pain and are high and know no darkeness or something. I stand by what I said when I was sick: you know. You know health, and you know normal. Your body can tell the differences. Still words are crude to describe the expereince]. My head was so clear. There was just a pristine silence in it. Things came, and went, and the chatter was gone, the goldfish in a bowl sense of existence was gone, and in its place a long, tranquil horizon.
And those observations hold across other activities in my life. The tired is gone. The focus is broader and longer. The emotions are stable. The darkness is gone. This is not to say my likfe is constant bliss, but it is normal disspointment, normal inability to concentrate, its normal.
Sometimes I find the most useful measure of increasing wellness to be the repitition of a task I have done seasonally. In specific, today I am thinking of riding my bike to work. I ride my bike to work when the weather is fair. I also live in Boston which means that I do not ride my bike to work for substantial portions of the year. I began riding again this week, after a layoff since November.
I was reminded this week that ast year, as recently as november, my bikes to work were a chore. I recall that my body would complain day after day as I rode through the fatique of illness. That pressing heavy, ever present lasssitude that settled into my bones in 1998, and has not left since. I recall sitting in the seat, and being careful to shift to preserve what was left of my tattered nerves.
I recalled, this week, by comparison, how I used to concentrate to hold my mind still. I needed to be vigilant to suppress the racing, spiralling thoughts, in attempts to maintian a safe eye on traffic. It was like living ina fog. Things would suddenly and violently come into view, and then dissapear again into the murk. It was frightening, and abrupt, and things had only a short life span before they faded and died. My focus, my attention span, was at best a few seconds.
Today, for instance, when I rode in, I was able to compare the experiences of just a few months ago. I felt that way so often, that I could recall exactly the experience, and because the two rides were seperated by so many months, I was able to truly appreciate the improvement. My legs were fine. I had the energy to keep pushing, and when I got to work, I felt...fine. [author's note: it is very difficult to explain normalcy. For this reason I think most doctors make the mistake of assuming that a mentally ill person is really fine, and wants to achieve a state of super health where they feel no pain and are high and know no darkeness or something. I stand by what I said when I was sick: you know. You know health, and you know normal. Your body can tell the differences. Still words are crude to describe the expereince]. My head was so clear. There was just a pristine silence in it. Things came, and went, and the chatter was gone, the goldfish in a bowl sense of existence was gone, and in its place a long, tranquil horizon.
And those observations hold across other activities in my life. The tired is gone. The focus is broader and longer. The emotions are stable. The darkness is gone. This is not to say my likfe is constant bliss, but it is normal disspointment, normal inability to concentrate, its normal.
posted by warnerk | 9:15 AM
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