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juushikaI'm waiting on posting a book review (that book review, requested by the book's author) until I run it by Devon—I read things aloud to myself to proof them, but reading them aloud to someone else always catches a lingering typo, and even if he doesn't give much feedback his general thumbs up is the final reassurance I need that I'm not, indeed, talking out of my bum, but that I have something useful to say. But for all of that, I'm surprisingly unpanicked about this review—or else worrying over it for the last few days has exhausted my stores of panic. It's hard to balance expectations against experience, and I've been self-doubting my own feelings lately (more on that in a paragraph or two), so I worried for a while whether my judgement of the book was authentic—or if it was the product of, or defiance of, expectations. Having typed and edited the thing, though—no, I think it's just about right.
In the meantime: Devon and I are officially sick. It's little sick, not big sick—a head cold mostly that's causing sore throat and stuffiness for us both. His comes on the heels of allergies and with a general propensity towards congestion; mine comes after about a week of pain, back and neck, bad enough that I took Tramadol last Friday (man, was that a good Friday), which is causing some general stiffness and muscle aches. But all in all, a little sick: stretching helps my muscles a lot (rest unfortunately makes everything worse, especially my neck), and I expect it won't last more than a few days more. I'm oddly cheered to know we are, indeed, sick, and that his allergies aren't coinciding with my physical misery. My spine has been hellish lately, so hellish as to lead to insomnia and depression; knowing that I have a head cold rather than further complications of back problems leading to sleep problems leading to full-body malaise is, in the way that bad news can be good news, a comfort.
Up until today I had brewing a post about wellness as defined by the slightly-unwell, a post which I think I'll trash rather than bring to fruition. Taking Tramadol puts my worldview into strange contrast and tends to bring out these thoughts in me—but because I've taken it before, and because I've recently been coming out of another depressive cycle, I've done plenty of thinking and writing on such issues lately. It's ground that's been recently trod; walking it again is unlikely to take me to any new destinations. Suffice it to say I've been having another crisis of worldview and belief-in-self: I have been pained, and concurrently depressed, and spending much of that experience contemplating the fact that I even as I dismiss my own problems as normal, therefore unexceptional, and I can realize that what I view as "normal" has a surprising tolerance for physical discomfort and mental suffering; furthermore I'm constantly convinced that those issues, both physical and mental, are probably fictional anyway—small complaints turned to great misery by a combination of self-indulgence and self-pity (and a hope that others will pity me too). Same old, same old, sad to say; worth mentioning mostly for my own records.
I still plan to get out of the house tomorrow, because moving does help my muscles and being upright helps clear my head, so activity may cure this cold better than rest. It's odd to be sick—because I get out rarely, I get sick rarely. The knowledge that I am is almost alien.
In the meantime: Devon and I are officially sick. It's little sick, not big sick—a head cold mostly that's causing sore throat and stuffiness for us both. His comes on the heels of allergies and with a general propensity towards congestion; mine comes after about a week of pain, back and neck, bad enough that I took Tramadol last Friday (man, was that a good Friday), which is causing some general stiffness and muscle aches. But all in all, a little sick: stretching helps my muscles a lot (rest unfortunately makes everything worse, especially my neck), and I expect it won't last more than a few days more. I'm oddly cheered to know we are, indeed, sick, and that his allergies aren't coinciding with my physical misery. My spine has been hellish lately, so hellish as to lead to insomnia and depression; knowing that I have a head cold rather than further complications of back problems leading to sleep problems leading to full-body malaise is, in the way that bad news can be good news, a comfort.
Up until today I had brewing a post about wellness as defined by the slightly-unwell, a post which I think I'll trash rather than bring to fruition. Taking Tramadol puts my worldview into strange contrast and tends to bring out these thoughts in me—but because I've taken it before, and because I've recently been coming out of another depressive cycle, I've done plenty of thinking and writing on such issues lately. It's ground that's been recently trod; walking it again is unlikely to take me to any new destinations. Suffice it to say I've been having another crisis of worldview and belief-in-self: I have been pained, and concurrently depressed, and spending much of that experience contemplating the fact that I even as I dismiss my own problems as normal, therefore unexceptional, and I can realize that what I view as "normal" has a surprising tolerance for physical discomfort and mental suffering; furthermore I'm constantly convinced that those issues, both physical and mental, are probably fictional anyway—small complaints turned to great misery by a combination of self-indulgence and self-pity (and a hope that others will pity me too). Same old, same old, sad to say; worth mentioning mostly for my own records.
I still plan to get out of the house tomorrow, because moving does help my muscles and being upright helps clear my head, so activity may cure this cold better than rest. It's odd to be sick—because I get out rarely, I get sick rarely. The knowledge that I am is almost alien.
