recovery and growth, things that interest me, occasional deep-thoughts, and semi-regular poetry
I have trouble with my thoughts. I don’t like a lot of them. They’re harsh, critical, and disturbing. They make me feel bad; they make me afraid. Except they don’t. I’ve realized that I have it backwards. It’s the feelings that come first. Feelings rise up and inspire the thoughts which then the amplify the problematic feelings, creating more problematic thoughts, and so on. It’s a vicious cycle...
I loved the idea of homeostasis when it was first introduced in grade eight biology. It is as follows: the tendency toward a relatively stable equilibrium between interdependent elements, especially as maintained by physiological processes. That definition, however, hurts the brain. I’m reasonably certain that it was expressed differently to me when I was thirteen. To the best of my recollection, the definition was simple. The process of homeostasis is the process of maintaining a steady state. I want that...
I’m afraid, almost all the time. Although I have phobias regarding certain things, spiders for example, this is not that kind of fear. This is a fear or nothing and everything and it’s with me all the time; it’s in my bones, written into my operating system. It impedes my ability to do almost everything. It makes me want to stay in my house, in my room, where I know it’s safe. Where I won’t have to deal with people. It makes me not want to deviate from my routine to try and control it and keep it at bay. Because the fear is awful, and I want more than anything to feel safe, and in order to do so, I keep my world small...
I recently bought my grandson a ball. It was a biggish one – about a foot and a half in diameter – and bouncy as all get out. It’s blue with baseball stitching and he loves it. He carries it everywhere, though it almost entirely obscures him, throws it on hard surfaces and giggles when it bounces away, and rolls it in every direction. It has brought a great deal of pleasure for about the cost of a cup of coffee. I chanced to pick it up this morning. Holding it stationary felt wrong so I bounced it one. Then I did it again. I dribbled it for a minute before bouncing it off a nearby door for a quick game of catch with myself. As I grabbed it and held it up to my chest, I wondered: what is it about a ball?
I haven’t worked on my novel since I got back from my abbreviated trip to Mexico. It doesn’t feel like the right time. Perhaps Monday will work out better; everyone knows that starting things on a Monday increases the chance of success. Or perhaps not. Monday-next is approaching mid-month; that seems like an awkward time to dive back into something. Perhaps I should wait ‘til the beginning of next month; starting on the first always works out better. Perhaps I should wait until June...
