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blue
Depression is an odd thing.
I feel as though it sneaks up on you — you are going, and going, and going, not stopping to breathe, just trying to keep your head above water. And then somehow, at some unknown moment, it consumes you. It grips your soul, and suddenly, you are drowning.
It’s also surreal. This feeling of hopelessness, overwhelming fatigue — disinterest in life and the ensuing sadness and frustration at feeling so disconnected. It’s also funny how well people can cope — hide — their overwhelming darkness. How you can smile, and function — get done what needs to get done — without any feeling of purpose or accomplishment.
Anyone who has ever felt depressed understands its nuances. Understands its insidiousness. Understands its inky darkness.
I’ve been here before. It was a long time ago, in a different life. But I know this place, this painful numbness.
When I was younger I had a painful fear of the transition from school to adulthood. I can’t remember exactly what i was so afraid of, but I remember being paralyzed with fear. I didn’t know how I was going to ‘grow up.’ I completely understood that everyone seemed to do it — I just didn’t understand how. I don’t know why this was so terrifying to me. But it was. I might not clearly recall the details of my fear, but I certainly remember the feeling.
I think part of the reason that I ended up in restaurants was this fear. I was afraid to pursue my dream of acting, and to stay young – to stay a child – I stayed in restaurants. I waited tables and hid in the haze of serving and the lifestyle of the hospitality industry. And then, without even realizing it, I ‘grew up.’ For six years I grew into adulthood by getting to work on time, learning accounting, and figuring out how to run a business with little to no guidance. I learned to trust myself, trust my instincts, trust my brain. I grew from a shy, scared little girl into a strong capable woman.
And becoming strong and capable has led me to again feel overwhelming depressed.
Life is funny that way, y’know?
I am looking forward into 2016, and the future of life — our first full year in our house, our trip to Italy, our trip to Iceland. I’ve thought about how we’ve gotten here, the hard work and the sacrifices and the mistakes we’ve made along the way. I’ve thought about maintaining our life, and the things we need to do to accomplish that.
And I know, without a doubt in my mind, that I cannot fulfill my half of the equation. I cannot keep doing what I’m doing, day-in and day-out without support or recognition or gratitude. I cannot keep doing what I’m doing when no one respects me, respects my time or respects my contributions. I know, in the depths of my heart, that I have to make a change. Or I will drown in this sadness, I will drown in this hopelessness.
thoughts from The Palm
I remember when John first told me he had MEN Type 1. I remember it very clearly … And not clearly at all. Memory is strange that way.
We were lying on his bed in the apartment he lived in when we met, facing each other. It was bright, because all the lights were on. I don’t know how we’d gotten there. I don’t remember what preceded it. But I remember him talking to me in a clear, calm voice. Explaining in the best way he knew how what his disease was – how it affected his life.
I can say now – seven years later, marriage vows taken, MS faced — I had no comprehension of his disease until yesterday.
I stood in ICU, nearly delirious with fatigue – nearly uncomprehending from the pressure of surgery and hospitals and well, reality — and his surgeon drew me a diagram on a dry erase board and explained things in a way I understood. I think I will forever be in love with her for that — that, and she loves the restaurant scene in Philadelphia. (Plus, she seems to perpetually be in heels, and that just deserves respect!).
As I have mentioned – probably more times than necessary – John and I have been together for about seven and a half years. Every year he’s spent a week at NIH (National Institutes of Health in Washington DC) where his doctors have monitored his disease, any changes, any progressions. I’ve stayed at home. Watched ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ live, gone to dinner with my girlfriends … Made him feel bad for leaving me alone.
John is my whole world. He is the reason I am strong every day – the reason I schlep to Penn for my meds with a smile, and fight for normalcy. He is the happiness in my life, the voice in my darkness, the light at the end of every tunnel. He is reason and spontaneity and comfort all rolled into one. I know his breath in the stillness of night, his smell, his warmth. I do not ever want to know life without him. Because I already have – and it’s not what life is now.
I think a lot about our bedroom right now. Not in an amorous way. I’m not that girl. But because I yearn for its comforts, its quietness – the sound of Lucy’s snuffles in the night. As I ride the subway to the hospital every day, and collapse into bed at night, my mind is filled with memories of this disease, memories of things he has told me and I didn’t fully register.
I remember tears falling slowly, one by one, as he talked about MEN. I was trying to be strong, but my heart was so full of love for this man, and everything was so new, and i couldn’t hide that this news was devastating. But as time passed … we moved in together, we traveled to Wyoming, we adopted Lucy … it faded — it became part of our dialog but not actually part of our life.
All that changed in October. We weren’t anticipating it. But he drove down for a day trip, for some tests to be run, for a study he had joined to scan his body. And he came home with the news. He would need surgery. Sooner rather than later.
MEN Type 1 affects the endocrine system. It’s a genetic disease (John shares the disease with his father and would have a 50% chance of sharing it with any biological children he might have). It manifests itself in a myriad of ways — many people are mis-diagnosed with a symptom of MEN, and not MEN itself.
The scan told his doctors that he needed surgery, and it needed to happen right away. My husband is incredibly strong, and would deny it today, but the heaviness of the news weighed on him, it darkened the words he spoke as he told me about it. It was evident in the lines around his eyes, the set of his mouth.
I felt the heaviness but I didn’t realize it’s weight until the surgeon came to speak with me in the waiting room — much earlier than I had anticipated — and told me that things had gone well. He smiled — which seemed insignificant to me at the time — but my father-in-law said afterwards he didn’t recall if he’d ever seen that doctor smile before.
I know now what MEN Type 1 means. I know that it will never stop being part of my life, of my husband’s life. I will become more familiar with NIH than I ever imagined. But I am grateful for NIH, for the study he is part of, for the doctors who examine him and keep him safe. I understand now — more than I ever thought I would — what this disease is, what it means, how it will continue to silently ravage my husband’s body.
I sit and I type and my eyelids droop from fatigue and I miss my husband by my side. And I finally understand.
women
I have been spinning like a top for weeks — hoping that I’m going fast enough not to tip over and fall, but knowing that because of the speed, everything is staying afloat by a hair — by a breath. I opened up my blog to write a little bit, and I will, but I saw this post that I began back in October, and I felt as though it was important enough to share. I spent the weekend following this with one of my greatest friends, and it was wonderful and perfect and all the things that felt as though they were piling up felt less burdensome. For just a moment.
October 22nd ~
On Tuesday morning, I bit it. Hard. Right on Market Street near City Hall.
Then I found out that my assistant had made an error so huge that it jeopardized half our staff’s payroll.
My company is growing so fast that I can’t keep up. I take a lot of pride in what I do and what I’ve helped to build. But right now it feels much too big to get a hold of and take care of properly. And that’s scary.
And I’ve spent the last week as a single person.
My husband took his dad on the trip of a lifetime and he has no cell service where he is — so here I am, alone. With my Lucy Lou.
It hasn’t been easy. There are moments when I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. Work, and home and responsibility and falling in the middle of the street — it isn’t easy.
And then I remember that I’m doing it — I’m holding it all together, and I’m doing it by myself. I’m eating healthy food, and getting proper rest, and taking Lucy out and keeping the house clean, and paying the bills and doing laundry and running a company … and I’m doing it alone.
It’s humbling. And it’s really hard. I think of my mother, who was a wife, a mother, a career-woman and all the shades in between. And I am both inspired and in awe. There are women out there, every day, with so many balls in the air. And they don’t all have the support that I have in John. They are making it happen and making it work on their own.
loss
Some nights I get on the train and my mind is so busy and my thoughts are so rapid-fire that I wish more than anything I had my laptop with me and could just start writing.
Sometimes I’m so angry I can’t calm myself — everything sets me off. Losing service at Suburban station (as though that never happened in the past … like, every day), the woman who seems to be strolling for enjoyment in the middle of the sidewalk/train platform/staircase, my assistant who seems to never run out of the same questions to ask me (repeatedly) on my way out the door. That I have answered numerous times in the past.
Sometimes i’m introspective and just want to get my thoughts on paper so I don’t lose them …
Sometimes I’m nostalgic, or sad or bursting with elation and joy. Sometimes I’m feeling clever or witty.
Today, I felt defeated. Defeated by an insurmountable to-do list that I have little to no assistance with (the job title of ‘assistant’ used above is for lack of a better word … she doesn’t really assist me very much when it counts). Defeated by an online card registration, defeated by bills I can’t pay, defeated by time. Defeated by a boss who is so compelled to build everyone else’s self-confidence and ego that he does so to my detriment. Defeated by Septa and the fact that both trains I was on today stopped –for seemingly no reason — for over 30 minutes each way. Defeated by everything.
And it made me sad, angry, introspective … disconnected. I stood on the train platform listening to ‘All of Me’ by John Legend on repeat, with the anxious feeling that I needed to do something, and felt on the verge of tears for a solid ten minutes.
I am not weak. I am not obtuse. I am not silly, or flippant. I’m sharp, and well-spoken and have walked through the fires of hell- by myself –and emerged on the other side. I’ve fallen and been broken and I’ve picked myself up and fixed myself. I’ve been humiliated and kept my head held high. I’ve worked indescribably hard for the things I have. I’m tired of apologizing for that. I’m tired of being made to feel bad for who I am. For the way I choose to live my life. For my amazing relationship with my husband. For being capable of doing my job. I seriously … and I mean SERIOUSLY … am tired of being punished for being good at what I do.
And as I sat here, typing furiously, my husband picked a P!nk song to play on our Sonos. And I began to sob uncontrollably. Because she is the strongest, baddest, most amazing artist. And everything suddenly feels a little better.
city mornings
I love the city in the morning.
There’s something clean about it, fresh. The feeling of a new day, before the heat and the sweat and the anger and the fatigue sets in. When everyone has a purpose, an agenda … confident that today will be a productive day.
This morning the air that greeted me as I emerged from Jefferson Station was heavy with humidity — no freshness at all in the breeze — instead, the heady aroma of petrol fumes. I’ve been so tired recently that it’s hard for me to distinguish the difference in vibes, but this morning the entire city felt tired — tired and frustrated and without any optimism. Everyone walked quickly, and showed their irritation at those who did not … the pedestrians shuffling aimlessly along, seemingly unaware of the rush of morning commuters.
I walk from the train station to Starbucks — I don’t think I could function without my chai latte. But I pass the entrance to my office, because the Starbucks between the station and the office is terrible — so I go a little further to one where they consistently know how to make my drink properly. It felt mellow there — somehow there were not throngs of people waiting anxiously in line for their morning java. And it felt like a nice respite after the hustle and bustle of the train station and the walk down twelfth street. They are even beginning to know me there and that is always a comfort.
Now I’m here, in my windowless office, not quite sure how to tackle the daunting to-do list that was ceremoniously ignored yesterday in deference to sleep.
Sometimes I forget I have MS. Sometimes, life feels so good, and I take care of myself just well enough, that things seem fairly normal. And then there are weeks … days like today… when I am painfully aware of the restrictions that MS has put in place for me. And I wonder, foggily, how I’m going to get through the things that need to be done and still have job in the morning.
Just two more days, and then the weekend. And hopefully, more unrestricted sleep.
honeysuckle
We have been in our new house for a little over a month. Six weeks maybe? I feel as though I’ve lost track of time. Everything feels different now … as though our apartment — that lovely little cozy nest of our life — is miles away. It’s still John. And Lucy. And it’s still me. But everything else feels different.
Which is a good thing. I think.
We moved in on a Saturday — full of excitement and anticipation. Waiting first for the moving truck to arrive, and then for our furniture to be wrapped and loaded … and then waiting for things to be unloaded so we could begin to unpack. All those boxes, packed over weeks and weeks at our old apartment — coming spectacularly undone in a matter of days.
And as our things began emerging from the anonymity of brown cardboard, it started to sink in — that this was our new home. That hour by hour and day by day, as furniture was put into place and rugs were lined and clothing was unpacked — we began to inhabit the space.
I still look around and feel like a child playing house. Everything is so pretty and so new (we had to buy a lot of furniture to make the transition from one bedroom apartment to three-story townhouse). It feels like a dream. Which I think should feel good … but sometimes it feels a little overwhelming, a little tiring.
I’d like to be at home, in sweatpants with no make-up on, eating Oreos and watching a bad rom-com and feel like it’s home. But we haven’t quite gotten there yet — it’s all still too new.
It’s a weird conundrum — feeling nervous to use things in your own house. John and I laugh together at night, talking about how the house is use-able — that is the point. But I don’t want to ruin all my nice, pretty new things. I’m so in love with all of it — I can’t bear the thought of ruining anything.
Other things have changed as well. (Obviously!) I take the train to work — which I sort of love. There’s less freedom with timing but just collapsing in a seat and half listening to a book or music, or NFL Radio for an hour — lovely. However, I am aware that I haven’t encountered a bad weather commute yet — so we’ll see how that goes, as the weather changes and coats and hats and rain and snow and wind are involved.
Lucy now has a dog walker — which is the most amazing thing. Knowing someone is stopping in mid-day to stretch her legs and allow for a potty break, treats and clean water … it alleviates so much guilt and stress for J & I. And Lucy is a much happier puppy. But I wonder if that’s just her walker, or also the house. The space, the stairs for her to run up and down — she loves it here.
I love it here, too. I think I love it too much … our new bed and soft bedding, the huge shower and bench where I can actually see things and am able to shave my legs without scarring myself for life … the huge dining room table where we can all sit and eat when visitors come… the fireplace my hubs bought me that hangs the length of our sitting room and crackles at night, mesmerizing me … our deck with its couch and grill and fire pit … my own office, filled with all my knick knacks, my piano, my yoga mat. My Magnum P.I. photo, my Hines Ward figurine.
I love it so much and yet, I feel as though it isn’t mine, I didn’t earn it, this can’t belong to me. I know that will fade, as the days begin to shorten, and the leaves turn from green to brilliant oranges and yellows and reds and then wilt to brown before scurrying away in a stiff breeze. The ‘newness’ and the feeling that I am out-of-place will fade as John and I settle into our home. As we cook more dinners, and watch more movies on the couch. But right now, as I re-read my old blog posts, and my affection for our old apartment is so apparent, I feel caught in the in-between.
I don’t miss that apartment. I don’t miss it at all — which is a little strange. I like our house, I like my new commute to work — I like living 25 minutes from my parents. I like the trees, and the rolling fields — the open-ness of our new home. But it isn’t worn in yet — it’s like a new shiny car that you are afraid to drive until you get that first ding. And then all of a sudden, it’s your car.
Today I couldn’t open my eyes — John got up and got ready for work and I didn’t even realize. When I finally cracked an eyelid, he was fully dressed and heading out the door. He kissed me softly good-bye, gave Lucy a snuggle and was gone. I dropped my head and was back to sleep. Hours passed. I woke up, I got dressed. Lucy and I went for a walk. I sat down to work in my beautiful little office. And then, without thinking much, I walked back to my freshly made bed, wrapped myself in my Steelers blanket, and went back to sleep.
Since that day that we moved into this house, it’s been non-stop. The excitement of the house, the excitement of guests, the excitement of organizing each room, the excitement of work …. And each Wednesday — the day I have in my schedule to allow me to rest and do my job well Monday and Tuesday and Thursday and Friday — has been full of work men in and out of the house, fixing all the issues we encountered after move-in. There hasn’t been a breath, there hasn’t been a moment of stillness. And that’s not a bad thing, because it’s all been exciting and fun and an adventure.
But my body just gave out today.
And as I woke from my nap, and the rain that had been drumming down earlier had broken, and the haze had lifted, and a clean cool pale yellow sun was stretching across the treetops and through the window, I thought it was about time I sat down and re-visited my blog.
And this day — this day of laziness in my new house — somehow made it feel a little more like home. And it took some of the weight that had been pulling on my shoulders off — weight I didn’t even know was there.
It still feels a little like some other person’s house — that I’m just visiting, passing through. But it feels a little less like that every day.
2/7
Today is my second wedding anniversary – but it’s also the seventh anniversary of John and I becoming an us. We celebrated like champions over the weekend, so today it was work, and then GoT in our pjs while the rain drummed and the thunder and lightening sparred in the sky.
I’ve been all over the place these past few days — the bubble of anticipation for the beginning of June nearly overwhelming. It’s a big month in the Hawn household. The man will be journeying to Scotland with me for the first time and our house — that wild and crazy decision we made in the depths of January — is near fruition. We snuck in yesterday and saw the flooring down, and the plumbing in every bathroom nearly complete. It seems that this long held dream will soon be a reality. Exhilarating and terrifying simultaneously!
The apartment is partially packed — boxes and rolls of tape leaning in corners near stacked belongings. Lucy has been pushing her food around and working herself up into a frenzy — we think it’s the transition of her home – the uncertainty. The nervous energy of John and I that she can inherently feel.
It’s an exciting time and a scary time — work continues to challenge us both (in varying degrees and at varying times) and this step — this leap into home ownership feels enormous. I want to remember these moments, the small breath in between the huge gulps of air — but I know that as time passes, things fade, images become blurry. There will be a moment in the future when I struggle to remember some detail of this apartment that seems ridiculously simple right now.
Today marks something so important – something so responsible for who I am today, where I am, who I’ve become. FInding John, choosing to forge a life together — it’s immense, significant. Humbling. I think it’s only fitting that a month as big as this month is setting out to be, begins with us. And I sincerely hope it ends with Lucy finding her appetite in her new house.
being grown up
The amount of things I do on a daily basis in the name of health — well, it’s ridiculous.
I began thinking about it one morning, as I took my liquid vitamin D, put my other supplements in my bag, made my lunch, prepared my hot water with lemon and green smoothie for breakfast. And that’s just part of the nutrition side. I drink over 90 ounces of water a day (trust me, that’s a lot of bathroom breaks), I’m about 90% meat-free, sober about 98% of the time (wine, despite being wildly delicious and utterly fascinating, also enhances my leg spasms and other MS symptoms) and I don’t eat very much gluten. I have to say that when all these changes were first presented I was completely overwhelmed by all of it. I didn’t think I was unhealthy but there were a lot of adjustments that were suggested as better alternatives. (In the years since I began this journey, I have learned that many of those adjustments did indeed make life better.)
Outside of food (and all those components) I also use a dry brush (my trusty Yerba) in the mornings before I shower — to help circulation, the lymphatic system and keeping my skin healthy. I try to meditate every morning. I moisturize every day (this is THE most tedious part of my day — I just find it completely tiresome), I have a pretty strict face routine (tinted moisturizer for the day, a different moisturizer for sleeping, different face washes/masks for the morning and evening — and I count to 40 -slowly- while washing my face). I also count to 40 while brushing my teeth, and I use a tongue scraper morning and night (one of my favorite things — i have to say, as gross as it is, the junk that builds up on your tongue is a pretty good indicator of how healthy your insides are).
And in addition to all these things (which can seem endless) I also, oh, y’know, work and live my life.
It’s insane to think that when I was young I didn’t think about any of these things. I didn’t worry about my intestines or my colon, I didn’t read my tongue’s debris like gypsies read tea leaves, I didn’t think about what I was eating at.all. And let’s be honest — I’m not that old. In fact, I don’t think of myself as old at all. Thirty-five is just the right age.
I do attribute the life changes to both getting older and being more self-aware as well as MS. And it’s crazy because the more you learn about things and decide what you agree with and what you think is just absurd (and trust me, there are things that seem completely insane in the world of nutrition and health), the more changes you make. Almost unnoticeably.
To be completely honest (which should be a given, since this is a blog by me, about, well, me) I am proud of myself and how far I’ve come. As John and I gear up to buy our house and move away from our first (and to this point, only) home together, I have spent a lot of time reflecting on where we began and how far we’ve come. We started out as two kids who didn’t have two nickels to rub together, eating incredibly unhealthy dinners (as we learned to feed ourselves outside of the restaurant industry) and dreaming of ‘one day.’
Well, now, six years, a dog, a wedding, several jobs & several cars later, we’ve arrived at ‘one day.’ We took some detours along the way (no one plans for a chronic disease, right?) but we got here, and it feels kinda great. It also reminds me that I have grown up — even if I still feel like I’m 17. (There are things that a teenager just can’t — and maybe shouldn’t — understand.) I think life, aging and all the things in between are fascinating. I like analyzing it and dissecting it in my head, in my thoughts. Understanding how I’ve gotten where I am and what I’ve learned along the way.
It’s kinda cool. Even if it takes up a lot of time. 🙂
the beginning of things
I don’t come here as routinely as I should — but when I come, I find myself circling back to the same ideas: living with MS, living life and who I am. I am fascinated with life’s path, God’s plan — how I have become me. I have moved and changed and morphed so many times, and often, there have been no constants to compare the passing of time. I am enthralled with the permanence that now exists in my life and how it has shaped me, but also how it has helped frame my life.
The hubs and I have lived in our apartment for nearly six years. Surprisingly enough, that’s the longest I’ve ever lived in one place. I think back on our relationship, the struggles we’ve faced, the triumphs we’ve experienced, the moments of laughter and the quiet despair of the tears. The day we were married and we celebrated in our back yard. The day we brought Lucy home. The day I was diagnosed with MS. The day we bought our new home. This little apartment is embedded with our joint life. It hurts my heart a little to think of leaving it — even though the idea of owning our own space is thrilling.
When John and I found this little space, I was unemployed and he was in a job that was slowly strangling his soul. We had weeks when we could barely afford groceries, let alone gas for our cars. Every piece of furniture was a hand-me-down, a dumpster dive or a piece from the salvo. We wore clothing we’d owned for years. But in many ways, we were insanely happy — being together, falling asleep each night to the rhythm of the other’s breath. Slowly we changed jobs, we worked doggedly at paying down our (massive) debt, we bought new clothing, we were able to shop at regular grocery stores instead of discount ones. All those milestones are marked in our memory of this apartment, and how it allowed us to stabilize ourselves over the years, and eventually (dare I say it) prosper a little bit.
Our first year was a rollercoaster ride of transitioning out of the restaurant business — learning that we had to feed ourselves, budget our paychecks, learn to cook. Somehow, we figured out how to be semi-healthy, and took steps (as we got into a groove) to better our eating habits, better our life choices. (I will completely admit that the addition of our furry little munchkin Lucy also pushed us in that direction fairly rapidly).
I think back about our evolution — from hot pocket breakfast sandwiches to green smoothies, and I’m sort of amazed. Who we are today, how we live our lives, the choices we make — it all barely resembles the two kids who moved in together after a year of dating. And yet — we’re still the same two people who fell in love. The same two people who were convinced we’d met before — only to discover (after much discussion) that we had not.
Kind of goes back to the idea of God’s plan.
Anyway — maybe all of that is just the idea of growing up, stepping into the big boots and trodding the rough paths of life. And in the end, I am most grateful for one thing: I couldn’t have a better partner (and the fact that I have one at all is also something I am eternally grateful for). He has been my strength in the darkness, my laughter through the tears, my most precious best friend. And together we’ve cobbled together a very happy life. We are not immune to life’s hardships — no one is. And our battles come in all shapes and sizes and forms. But we soldier on together. And I think, as we both sit tapping away on laptops with Avatar playing in the background, that we have been traveling on an amazing adventure together, and I am deeply grateful for his companionship.
who we are
It’s a funny evolution — growing up and slowly making life choices. Something that has been on my mind recently — the choices we all make — pretty much touches every aspect of who we are. Not just what we do for a living — but how we do what we do. Who we choose to spend our life with – where that life is lived. Some of the choices are influenced by outside factors, but many are internal decisions. Steps are taken based on experience, based on culture, based on the humans our parents began to build.
But at some point, we stop being our parents children, and we become ourselves.
I can see — in how I live my life — both of my parents and my paternal grandmother (who assisted in raising my brother and I while living with our family most of my young life). Those three people did their best to shape a little human who had values, morals and ate her vegetables (among other things). The time, effort and education they put into me, the love and attention and angst as I grew up and spread my wings — the pure frustration they must have felt. None of their work was immediately evident as I headed off to college. It was hazy — who I was was still somewhat unclear.
I made them wait a little, too. I didn’t have all my sh*t together like most kids — I graduated from college and hung out in limbo for a little bit. Now, over ten years later, I can look back and things make sense. But they didn’t at the time.
And then all of a sudden, I began to figure it out, figure myself out. It started small, but it grew. I felt confident in who I wanted to be – as a partner, as an employee and as a member of society. Suddenly, I began to understand how the world worked — and that it didn’t work for me, or in my favor. I had to make that for myself.
So very long story short, I managed to fall into a career, I met a man who is actually my best friend, a man who cares about me and love me even when I’m completely unloveable. And I began to grow up for real.
What I mean by that is that at some point (and it varies greatly) I think we all become aware of taking care of ourselves — that maybe what we eat actually matters, and exercise is –after all– about more than being skinny and looking the part at the gym. That there are consequences to all our actions.
And then — each one of us — we begin to define ourselves. In our personal relationships, in how we conduct ourselves professionally — in how we choose to be healthy. Some people look for easier solutions — diet supplements, things that guarantee a result without putting in the work. And other people do the research, they slowly build their knowledge and modify their behavior. It speaks of character just as much as it speaks of health.
Anyway, I digress.
The point I’m making (in a very round about way) is that once we begin to make choices we begin to define who we are, but also who we want to be. And that entire process is fascinating. I’ve been thinking a lot about it (as I mentioned at the beginning of this post), because the man and I have made so many changes in how we live — and that’s just the past few years, not even the entire time we’ve been together. At some undefinable moment (because it wasn’t when I was diagnosed — that just enhanced it) John and I began to make changes in how we lived our lives. And the evolution of that is crazy. And I can see who we are, and our life circumstances, in nearly every change we’ve made. I can see myself — this late-blooming human being — beginning to emerge from the haze. And it’s pretty cool.
D5 Creation