I saw my doctor last month. I hadn’t been there for two years. The last three years have melded together and I can’t wrap my head around the passing of that time at all.

When I went, he was alarmed that I had stopped taking the lexapro he’d prescribed. I always answer the questionnaires honestly – which were also alarming. And my lack of emotional response to just about anything he was saying got me a new prescription.

I just didn’t know what to say to him. I knew I was bad and made 0 improvements, in fact I had reverted back and got even worse.

I went back this week to meet with a Nurse Practitioner. Honestly, they’re a bad ass profession. She wasn’t a doctor but gave off that medical expert vibe. My doctor is a white guy and the psychiatrist I had before has a Romanian woman. She basically told me how Americans are the worst – they have everything and feel like they have nothing. She’s not wrong at all.

I don’t think that’s the full story though. My shit goes past being an ungrateful and undisciplined American. There’s generations of trauma in the family and my own personal childhood trauma.

The NP was also some kind of Eastern European. I could tell by the accent and name, but it’s so damn hard to pinpoint them to one country that I didn’t even bother trying to figure it out. It doesn’t matter – all those Eastern European countries had and have it much worse than the West.

She was pretty straight up with me. I was again reminded that my condition will never go away. I will actively have to fight it and take medication for the rest of my life otherwise I will die. I will die of suicide, stroke, or a heart attack. If I don’t directly kill myself the poor coping mechanisms will.

She listens to my heart, “you need to do more cardio”. I was like, “uhhh, what did you hear?!”. She said she heard nothing and I could tell she was dancing around saying, “bro, you’re fat as fuck and if you don’t start pushing your heart at this young age you will never be able to do it”.

I had watched a scene from Louie, Louis C.K’s show. We will discuss Louie in another blog as I am very conflicted on him, but the show is legendary. Like the Michael Jackson Bad album.

Louie’s childhood friend became a doctor, Rickey Gervais. Ricky’s character is wildly offensive and wields his Dr. title dangerously, all to the audience’s amusement.

That day and yesterday I went to the gym and did 20 minutes of uphill fast walking. I can’t run unless my life is in danger so fast walking is better.

My hips and ass and ankles and feet hurt so fucking bad afterwards. I was so sore and tender last night that any position I put my body in felt like a massive stretch. I needed to stretch myself to sleep I hurt so bad.

It was a good hurt though. Not the hurt like, “oh my god I’ve slipped a disc” or tore a ligament hurt. More like a, “I’ve barely used these body parts for two years and now the rust is breaking off” kind of hurt.

I went downstairs to fill up a cup of water and each step I felt like the god damn Tin Man.

It’s good though. The body needs this. I can’t go back to another Eastern European woman with failure. They’ve lived through too much for me to force their witness to my minor and unsympathetic struggles.

I can’t compartmentalize any of what happened to me. I can’t put it away – especially now when I am forced to participate and be reminded of my flaws and terrors daily. I just have to focus on work, my body, and my relationships with others.

Someday soon I will launch to freedom. I wonder if I’ll look back. Actually – what I do know – I will be infinitely tethered to this hell because I will never be able to live with the guilt that has already been placed on me for even having such thoughts of never looking back. I will stay in the grips of hell, always fantasizing of escape and never succeeding.

I see many different versions of my future self.

One, and the most desirable, is married with children. Waaahhh so traditional…

However I have those children. There’s many acceptable versions there.

One, I find the greatest love of all in the next 1-7 years of my life and have children with her.

Another, I have more false delusions of the greatest love, potentially of children, potentially get married, and go down in a flaming divorce where I submit to anything and everything just for it to be over.

A different route is remaining single for a long time. Marrying a divorcee or a widow and becoming a step father. I wouldn’t mind that because the responsibility is naturally less but the potential impact on children’s lives is huge.

Ultimately, I would like to be in a family as a parent.

Though I think finding a companion is all I truly desire or feel that I “need”.

Will I achieve this? I suppose if I get old enough and look hard enough that I will find something.

I don’t really care about any of that in the present moment. They’re dreams for a reason.

I want to live on a street. Neighbors that I like but don’t love. Neighbors that I love and talk to. People who walk up my street. Sounds of cars and birds and airplanes over head. Dogs barking. Maybe a park nearby.

But if I want to have any hope that I reach that age I have to take better care of myself.

I’ve been going to the gym at least 4 days a week. The progress so far has been amazing.

I don’t look different yet but I feel good. Thinking back to the first day and how much of a struggle it was to get going versus now, I can feel myself getting stronger and improving. I’m tracking my workouts to ensure progress otherwise I’m just playing a memory game week to week. I want to be one of those guys with 50lb dumbbells.

I’ve also relaxed my neurosis while I’m in the gym. The first few weeks I was internally spiraling and raging over very minor things. Someone taking too long on the machine, people standing around talking, little kids running around.

Here goes…

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