Day 830
If I had written this before noon today, I would have been bragging on myself a bit. But about two o'clock, I started feeling like crap. It was frustrating because I thought I'd done some good recovery work this week, getting past some danger zones, and now here I was with thoughts of failure dancing around my nauseousness and fatigue.
The bragging was going to be about how I've taken a step toward physical self-care, something I've not been good at most of my life. I hear guys in meetings talking about how they suddenly find themselves exercising or dieting or something else to take care of their bodies and how much it helps their recovery, and I never thought that would be me.
My body is filled with aches and pains typical of ex-athletes and weekend warriors, and I've just adapted and adjusted to get by as best I can. I'd be happy to have surgery to make any of them go away, but as soon as I hear about the follow-up therapy work to make the surgery worth it, I know it would probably take more discipline than I've ever exhibited, so I just keep on changing what I ask my body to do so it doesn't hurt so much.
A few weeks ago, I had had enough of neck and shoulder pain from all those burdens I've carried most of my life. That's the romantic version of what makes them hurt; the truth probably has more to do with a horrible golf swing. Anyway, I submitted myself to physical therapy with low hopes of any short-term gain.
I've missed a day or two of the exercises I'm supposed to be doing on my own in between the twice-weekly sessions with a therapist, but I've shown more discipline than I expected, and (oddly enough) I've seen much more result than I expected. Imagine that.
So I was all set to weave my physical improvements through an addiction metaphor showing cause-and-result evidence to encourage myself to keep on keeping on, but then I wanted to puke and sleep. How depressing.
My wife was concerned about me, and by evening was asking questions that might lead her to be able to help. I started running down my food consumption, emotional state, and physical activities, including having a session with my new physical therapist at noon. Neither of us heard anything there that would cause what I was feeling.
A few seconds later, she innocently added, "And I'm sure you drank your water when you got home, so that shouldn't be a thing." Wait. What?
I have been carrying a water bottle with me religiously for the past year or more in the interest of better hydration, so it was a reasonable assumption. However, for some reason, I hadn't had the first drink of H2o today. When I admitted that, I received a kind but clear lecture on how toxins are released when the body is repetitively manipulated in uncommon routines. Duh.
Ashamedly I knew this from several years of regular massages, legitimate ones, and the other kind. So, even in my joy of finding a likely culprit for my current malady, I am again reminded of my guilt and shame in my acting out. It didn't last long, but it was undeniable. It was almost as if I sabotaged myself so that I wouldn't have to draw on the experiences I'd rather forget about.
I feel better now, but I hate that I didn't get to write in my journal today about the metaphors between physical healing and addiction recovery. And if the sarcasm there is not clear, perhaps it's time to revisit Steps 4 and 5.
–JR
And I wish I could explain how the toxins in my brain
Get me so damn down sometimes I can't speak
And you'll try to understand why I can't be a better man
–Zach Bryan, ”Leaving"
Comments