Dear Diary

a public journal of the day to day stuff in my head


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What writers do

IMG_20140416_193759I sit here trying to type a story out.  Anything. The words won’t come. Instead I sweat out the sickness that has gripped my body since Saturday.  I sit in the clothes I wore all day, that are now covered in dog hair. I think, “I need a shower and then maybe the words will come.” I tell myself that if I keep writing everyday I will get better. Practice makes perfect and even if I have nothing worthwhile to write I should write anyway. It’s what writers do, isn’t it?

This is the first time I have felt better all week, sitting here un-showered, in my dog hair covered yoga pants, in need of a haircut and relieved I only have two more days of work and I can rest some more.

I sigh and contemplate. I delete and re-write. I think “I was a better writer in my feverish, sick, Nyquil bending haze.”

I look over at the counter, the Nyquil still sitting there, it hasn’t made its way to the bathroom cabinet yet and I consider…I decide a shower is a better choice and I give up on writing for the night, I’ll read a book instead.


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I am a turtle

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I gained five pounds. I’m the skinny girl though so I can’t say anything to anyone about it. The five pounds feel like 500 pounds to me. It’s all centered in my normally flat stomach and my ass. My clothes are fitting tighter than normal and I hate tight clothes. I prefer that my pants not feel like they are cutting me in half. I am no slave to fashion. I prefer comfort over the sake of looking good. I don’t think I ever look good. My husband frowns when I say this. I’m the skinny girl so any amount of weight on me feels like an exaggeration. I fear that others will think “How can that girl THINK she is even close to fat?” so I say nothing. I sit with the five pounds in my gut, looking down at the overhang dangling from the top of my pants.

I asked my husband if I have a “muffin top.” He said he noticed a little gain in weight but I was far from a “muffin top.” I felt swollen all over. He said it was likely due to my period. I said “Oh, you’re probably right.” I glared at him for saying he noticed the weight gain. I should not have asked then I remembered one of the reasons I love him is for his honesty.

I only tell my husband and ask him what I can do about it. He says to train of course. I think to myself I will train everyday, life will be good, I will drop the five pounds and feel normal again. I completely ignore the fact that I have a highly sensitive nervous system. My husband reminds me of this fact and says to do a kettlebell movement a day, three times a week and leave it at that. He reminds me that I need to build slowly. I think slow is for turtles and I prefer to be the hare and insist I do at least three movements three days a week. In the back of my mind I’m thinking I will do more. I want fast results!

I wake up Saturday still feeling fat and decide it’s the perfect day to get started on my training. I say in my head my schedule will be “Training Saturday, Tuesday and Thursday.” I think it will be no problem and I tell myself I can do this easily. My husband tells me I need to sweat in order to lose the weight. It’s hard for me to sweat so I tell him we have to do it outside.

I grab my 15 pound kettlebell and we head to the broken down, no longer in use tennis court of our cheap apartment complex. I’m wearing yoga clothes and my hair is pulled into two very short pigtails. I’m in need of a haircut. I wear flip-flops because kettlebells require you train barefoot or in very flat shoes. My flat shoes smell horrible and I figure I will spare us the stink. I take off my flip-flops and step onto the warm, smooth pavement of the tennis court. I think of the kids who play here after school. My husband tells me to pick up the kettlebell and that I will swing it 30 times and then I will jog around the court until he tells me to swing the bell again. I take a deep breath in, grab the bell and pump it 30 times inhaling on the up swing, exhaling as I swing it between my legs. It isn’t hard at first. I feel good, I feel like I can do this. I feel like five pounds is nothing and I will be feeling like normal again in no time.  I count to 30 with my husband and then set the bell down he looks at me and tells me to put my flip-flops on and jog the court. I do. The flip-flops hurt pinching into the soft pit of my big and middle toe.  After twice around the court, I throw them off and let my bare feet hit the warm pavement. It feels solid and I run much faster. It’s hard but it doesn’t hurt. He calls time again and I pick up the bell. I start to run out of steam and my husband yells “C’mon! 15 seconds left!” in a deeper voice than his normal one. I call it his “trainer” voice. I barely hear him through my labored breathing. I realize how out of shape I am. It’s disheartening. I feel all of 39 years in that moment. I scowl at him for being eight years younger than me.

For the last round of the kettlebell routine my husband squashes two red ants hauling ass toward my feet. I scold him for killing the tiny creatures because I’m a vegetarian and that’s how I feel about those sort of things. I pick up the bell and as I begin to end my set a little, red fiery ant bites my toe and I yell. “That little bastard just bit me!” My husband responds “You didn’t want me to kill it, so I didn’t.” I give him another scowl which he ignores and makes me do Turkish get ups.

When we are finished I am tired and I don’t want to carry my bell back to our apartment. He tells me I have two hands, carry it. Sometimes I don’t like him, this is one of those times.

Later that evening I’m making tacos for us and his best friend. I’m dancing in the kitchen to The Bee Gees and I notice that the bottoms of my feet hurt. I remember that I ran around a dilapidated tennis court in bare feet. I smile because I know that shortly five pounds will be off. I have the best of intentions. As I lie the couch I start feeling sick. My throat is scratchy and I think…it’s just allergies.

I spend the next three days sick in bed in a feverish haze going on a Nyquil bender just to rest. In my delirious state I tell my husband I don’t think I can train with kettlebells. He sighs. We go through this every time I decide I want to train. He reminds me I’m sensitive first, that I haven’t done any kind of exercise in a very long time and that I must start very slowwwwwwwwwwwly. I remember I wanted to be the hare but remind myself I am the turtle. Slow and steady. Slow and steady. The Nyquil hits my system and I pass out.


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Moment of sickness

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The lawn care men are outside. It’s stirring up all the pollen and grass and whatever else causes  allergies to rage. They have no sympathy. I’m afraid to go outside or my sinuses will be under attack and so far I am not winning this battle.

I stayed home from work today because I felt sick. Sneezing, burning eyes, burning sinuses. Husband said I felt as though I had a slight fever this morning when he got up for work. It was four am. I have no thermometer only the back of his cool forearm. I was cold and so I took his word and ibuprofen, crawled tiredly back into bed and sent my boss a text message that read “I feel like crud and I’m not coming in today.” I just couldn’t face the stress of work. I didn’t have the energy for it just the energy to sleep.

The fever must have broken because I woke up a couple of hours later drenched in sweat. Peeled off socks and pants and threw off blankets. Sweat. Sweat. My head felt as though someone packed ten tons of cotton in it and my right nostril felt like it was packed with cement. Coffee. I need coffee. Hot liquid, steamy hot down the back of my itchy, sore throat. Fill my sinuses with steam, open up and release. I tell myself if I sneeze one more time today I’m going to lose it! I’ve sneezed plenty more, I haven’t lost it but my nose is getting raw from blowing out the contents of my aching sinus cavities. Thankfully it is clear which means there is no infection, which is a good thing because Lord only knows how I’ll pay for a doctor visit. I sit here now, in my pajamas which is actually an oversized shirt belonging to my husband and yoga pants. I live in yoga pants as much as I can.

I try not to think about tomorrow or all the other million different things running through my head. I try to chase away the feeling that I need to be doing something all the freaking time, working towards something – getting out – planning – exercise – make things better right now! Instead I try to focus on letting my body heal and stealing these few moments I have to write this out before my bed beckons me again and all I can muster is the strength to hold up my book to read for a few moments before I pass out.

The thoughts in my head still race. They won’t go away. They are relentless. I know sleep will be the temporary solution to a seemingly permanent problem.

My life is miserable but I try each day to make it better and I keep on telling myself…four more months, four months until it turns into three, then two, then one. Then…Geronimo!

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