17 Years Later

The thing I remember most is that it was a beautiful day.

I wasn’t there, but it was beautiful here in Pittsburgh. I remember that blue sky. I’ve never been to New York City. As the footage and photos rolled in, the sky was blue there too. It looked like a beautiful September day. Until you saw the clouds of dust dominating through the streets, and the dark, black smoke that filled the skyline.

September 10th, 2001 was the last normal day.

We didn’t know what was coming.

There wasn’t an American not impacted that day. There isn’t an American alive today whose life has not been affected by the events of that September day.

I was nine when the attacks happened. I never appreciated the normal that we lived in.

My brother was born in 2005. This post-9/11 world is all he has ever known. To him, and all the generations that follow, this has always been the normal.

I was in fourth grade. We were coming back from gym, and the teachers seemed upset. We were all brought into one classroom where we watched the second plane hit the tower as it happened.

I freaked out and ended up going home that day. My dad was a volunteer fire chief at the time, and for some reason, I thought he was going to have to go to New York City and fight the fire. Bear in mind, I live in Pittsburgh. I also thought he could be drafted. I didn’t realize that there wasn’t a draft anymore. I also worried that my older brother would be too once he turned 18 (he was still a couple years away from that). So…they let me go home.

My brothers stayed at school as my parents felt the school was the safest place they could be. And honestly, my school was nothing significant. It was a typical suburban district. My parents were most likely right.

You can’t say that about schools today. Nowhere is safe now.

Directly from the attacks, 2,996 people died. More have died since from causes such as 9/11 related illness, like cancer.

We went to war after the attacks. Seventeen years later, we are still there. It’s crazy. You don’t hear much at all about Afghanistan these days. But we still have troops there. That war hasn’t ended. More sacrifices made, as our soldiers fought for our country.

Three separate attacks; the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City; the Pentagon in Washington D.C., and a crash into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. The terrorists hadn’t planned for United Flight 93 to crash into some field. Once they hijacked the plane, the passengers tried to take it back. It is believed that plane was meant to crash into the White House. The terrorists had claimed that they were returning to an airport. However, some passengers had already heard about the attacks in New York and Washington D.C. and put together that wasn’t their plan.

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Some onboard were able to make final phone calls to loved ones and filled them in. A flight attendant told her husband she was filling pitchers with boiling water. Another passenger, Todd Beamer, was overheard saying, “Are you guys ready? Let’s roll,” now a hauntingly, defining statement of the day and showcases the courage of the passengers.

They attacked the cockpit, possibly with a fire extinguisher. In the scuffle, the plane crashed. All 44 people onboard died. Many, if not all of the passengers, knew that they were going to die. But by attacking the terrorists, the passengers and crew committed a significant, selfless act of bravery. How many lives did they save? Ordinary people whose lives are defined by an extraordinary act of courage.

The 9/11 attack was the deadliest day in the history of the FDNY; 343 people died. Entire crews gone. I read a book that I highly recommend, “Bagpipe Brothers: The FDNY Band’s True Story of Tragedy, Mourning, and Recovery” by Kerry Sheridan. It provides history of the bagpipes in the FDNY, but also the dealing with 9/11 – alternating between playing at funerals for their fallen brothers and sisters and digging through the rubble for those still missing. It took firefighter 100 days to extinguish all the flames from ignited by the New York City attacks.

Additionally, 23 NYPD died and and 37 Port Authority officers died. Many of them were trying to evacuate the building and lead workers to safety, as others tried to rescue those located on the higher levels of the towers.

The youngest victim from the attack was two, while the oldest was 85.

As of July 2018, 60% of remains have been positively identified.

There were 3,051 children left without a parent as a result of the 9/11 attacks. Additionally, seventeen babies born following the attacks would never meet their fathers as they had perished in the attacks.

There were loved ones who had to wait a year before anything was found from their deceased – Lisa Ann Frost was a passenger on the plane that hit the South Tower. Her parents waited a year until anything belonging to their daughter was found. Workers sifted through over a million tons of debris to find personal effects of the victims. Some 65,000 items were found; including 437 watches and 144 wedding rings.

9/11 became the defining moment of George W. Bush’s presidency. Three days after the attacks, the president went to Ground Zero and spoke to a crowd. One individual yells that he can’t hear him. In response, the president famously says, I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you! And the people – and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.”

In response to the attacks, the Department of Homeland Security was formed. This was the result of the merger of 22 governmental agencies.

The 9/11 Commission Report was released July 2004. It is almost 600 pages. I had to read parts of it for some of my MPA classes several times. It is not an easy read. Some transcripts were included as it was realized what was happening. Factors that were ignored are included. Criticism included that not all of the warnings that were received prior to the attack were included. There is a lot to take in.

There are defining photos; such as the firefighters raising the flag in the midst of the rubble, the silhouettes of those who jumped to their death, people covered head to toe in dust as they try to escape, the black smoke contrasted against and taking over the blue sky as the towers burn, the rubble of Ground Zero and the Pentagon, and the countless photos of memorials and people together, mourning.

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And here we are now. The One World Trade Center, also called the Freedom Tower, stands tall. There is the 9/11 Memorial in New York, with the names of the victims included near the waterfall. We’ve changed. Society has changed. Boarding an airplane is different with new restrictions. The War on Terror continues. Osama bin Laden, who took responsibility for the attacks, was killed by US Navy Seals after a nearly ten year search.

The suffering hasn’t ended. Some who survived the initial attack are facing a new fight caused by 9/11. More than 150 firefighters and paramedics have died from 9/11 related illnesses. Asbesto related cancers can take twenty years for symptoms to show. We are almost at that twenty year mark. The 9/11 Victims Compensation Fund is beginning to feel strain, and not all the victims may get the assistance they need. There was $7.3 billion dedicated to the fund. Comedian Jon Stewart has become an activist to the cause of 9/11 first responders and survivors. Since leaving “The Daily Show,” Stewart has dedicated his career to this cause and has helped get vital bills passed.

In the days and weeks following, the country was united in a way that I had never experienced nor have experienced since. If I had to guess, the last time Americans were so united was probably during the World War II effort. So many of the things we see today, political differences, race, religion, whatever else separates us – didn’t matter. We were all Americans. The nation grieved together. We supported each other. We rose up together. It is sad that it took a tragedy of such immense proportions for the country to come together.

We could, and should, learn from 9/11. Learn from the helpers. Like Mr. Rogers said, “To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.” From the enormous amount of courage the passengers, first responders, and workers showed, as many knew that they were facing death.  From the acts of kindness that strangers offered one another. From the determination to find out who did this to us. The attack was meant to break us. Instead, Americans linked arms and showed that we are stronger together. That such an attack was an attack on all of us. On this one day each year, briefly, we come back together. We looked past our differences and instead focused on what was best for the nation.

I don’t know how to get that unity back. Right now, we are so divided. We attack each other instead of listening. It seems like we have turned our back on anyone who doesn’t share our beliefs. These differences is what make America great. The variety in our society is what America was built from. A melting pot, remember? Freedom of religion? Freedom of speech?  This fighting within is going to get us absolutely nowhere. If anything, it makes us more vulnerable. Perhaps if we would listen more, we would accomplish more. Those differences didn’t matter that September day. We lost so much that day. But the American spirit was not lost. We can leave a better world for our children.

I believe in America. I believe the strength and courage shown those days are still alive in all of us. It is ours to grab onto.

But most importantly, we will never forget the strength and courage of the responders and victims.

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We will never forget 9/11.

 

World Suicide Prevention Day

Monday, September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day. Because of this, I wanted to share a little bit about what brought me to blogging about mental illness. I never thought this blog would be so focused on mental health, but here we are.

A couple years ago, a mutual friend committed suicide. It was someone I knew and someone I had hung out with, but not someone I was close with. I may not have been great friends with this person, but it affected me greatly. It made me take on a new perspective in a sense. My goal became to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental illness. If I could help one person view mental illness differently, that was an accomplishment to me.

He was a good guy. He was always nice to me; he alternated from making people laugh to making people think a little bit more.

When he died, it had been awhile since I had seen him. I had seen various Facebook statuses that were vague and all I knew was the someone who many of my friends knew had passed.. Some of the posts made it sound like a suicide. Later that night, I learned who it was and I was shocked.

I was past my first suicidal period at that time, but in some ways, I felt closer to it than I ever had before. It suddenly seemed much more real. Roles could have been reversed quite easily; some of the friends I was comforting would have been on the other side offering comfort and hugs to my family and friends. Some friends would be in the exact same spot. His death created a crack that would never be filled. On the contrary, it became a gaping hole with a beating, broken heart in its depth.

His viewing and funeral were the first – and for some, the only, – time I had seen some of my friends cry. And like I said, I was on the other side. At one point, it might have been very different.

In response to this death, I also became, albeit irrationally in some ways, angry.  That anger brought me here. To writing this.

Following his death, I saw several people post on social media how if they had only known he was feeling like that, why didn’t he reach out, they would have helped, he was loved, how didn’t he know…? Often, we try to find reason and understanding in death. Denial and acceptance are both stages of grief. There is no understanding behind suicide.

But I had a feeling.

I thought that feeling was gone forever. The darkness had returned.

My experience was not the same as his. No two individuals have the same experience. But I could, in a sense, relate.

It’s a battle. And thoughts of suicide would be the equivalent of a sniper’s laser on you and the motherfucking big guns ready to roll.

Mental illness is a battle against yourself. Suicide is the ultimate weapon, the ultimate threat. You, or a part of you that houses the disease, are your own enemy. And we fight. Humans, by nature, are fighters. Fight or flight. Survival of the fittest. This is the ultimate test. It’s not tangible. There isn’t a diseased organ to replace or remove. It is your fucking brain against you. Everything you are. You fight yourself. How does anyone fucking win at this? Everything about you feels toxic.

And it can get to a point where the only way to win the battle is to be gone. Death means that there is not a fight anymore. Fighting makes you exhausted. There is no more guilt for what you are putting others through, no more feeling like a burden. And sometimes, it’s about ending the pain. No more pain. No more. Just – nothing. In my experience, I felt such extreme emotions or nothing at all. I craved normalcy. I didn’t think I would ever get back to myself.

War can make people desperate. It changes who we are. This mental battle is no different.

But yes, there are many alternatives and treatments and even hope which can seem so out of grasp to suicide. But the person is freaking mentally ill. They aren’t thinking rationally. That’s the first thing we need to establish. When you’re mentally ill, your thoughts are NOT working correctly. And this can result in a myriad of consequences.

“But why not reach out?” Dude, that’s hard. That is still hard for me. Reaching out is ridiculously difficult. It can take me days, if not weeks, to reach out once something is bugging me. And sometimes I just let it fester. Hell, I know I’m doing it now. When I was suicidal, I told one person. And that person was not the therapist or counselor I was seeing at that time. I don’t even know if this person knows that I didn’t tell anyone else at the time. I think others were concerned that it was getting to that point.

There is such a stigma with mental illness. You really don’t know how someone is going to react to any of it. Fun fact, the same person I told that I was suicidal was also the first person I told that I had depression after my parents. And when things get bad, they can get really bad. I don’t think you can really be prepared for it. I sure as hell was never prepared for any breakdown I have ever felt. I know how to recognize signs now. I know what to do after to help myself and the horrible headache bound to come after. But in the midst of it, I have no control. How on earth can I expect anyone to be able to deal with that?

Here’s my favorite example. I have struggled to get my driver’s license because I have an anxiety attack whenever I take the test. You would not believe how many people give me crap for that. They either make jokes or tell me to get over it. These things do hurt. I tell myself it’s because people do not understand mental illness but that doesn’t stop it from hurting. That is one example.

The get over it happens a lot. I don’t understand why. It’s funny, I’d really rather not hate myself, have anxiety that paralyzes and nauseates me on a regular basis for at times seemingly no reason, have it take all my energy to just get up and shower, cut into myself with an actual knife, and so much more. Really. I didn’t ask for this bullshit. None of us did. It was the hand we were dealt. I don’t know why, and I probably never will. But don’t tell someone to just get over it. Go walk on your hands instead of your feet. Let me know how that works out for you. I just can’t get over it.

Some people feel awkward when you reach out. I totally get that. It is a heavy load to put on someone else.

Other people scoff and think you’re being dramatic or want attention. Trust me, I’d rather blend into the background and not feel as if I am known for being insane. There are infinitely better, easier, and more positive ways to get freaking attention. I can’t even fathom how people think others enjoy beating themselves up mentally and physically. Does not compute.

I would give anything to have my mental health back. Anything.

That is probably not going to happen. Instead, I am working on eliminating the stigma for mental illness. That feels like the right direction. You might be wondering how this relates to him. We’re circling back.

So, people were posting how they wished he had reached out to them and that they were there for anyone who was struggling. The sentiment is sweet and sincere. But I know that often, when I want to reach out, I can’t. I don’t know how they are going to react. A lot of the time, it’s really hard for me to put into words how I am feeling. Ultimately, I am much better at writing how I feel. But it’s still so hard. I’ve been burned before. My feelings have been invalidated. Sometimes it seems easier to just grit my teeth and go at it alone. Mental illness can be a very lonely battle.

I had never felt so alone.

It can feel like the rest of the world isn’t there. It is not as easy as just reaching out.

This, to my surprise, made me angry. None of us had been in his head. None of us knew why he made his choices. But asking for help can be hard in general. For something so stigmatized, asking for help takes a lot of courage. To ask why will provide no answers.

I still don’t know why this made me so angry. He was gone. All I did know was that he had to have been suffering in horrible pain. I saw a lot of misunderstanding and many questions. And I decided that enough was enough. I hadn’t exactly hidden my struggle but at the time, I really didn’t get into specifics. But that was going to change.

It was time to do my part in eliminating the stigma. For him. For those left behind. So that less people would feel that struggle alone, and so that more people would understand.

I decided to post a narrative on social media about my experience with depression and battling suicidal thoughts. To be honest, I don’t remember exactly what I posted. But for some people something got lost in translation and people thought I was suicidal in that moment. I wasn’t. That was a slight hiccup in my intention. I had to rectify that pretty quickly.

Some of the other reactions to my post were also unexpected. I had people messaging me telling me about their experiences with suicidal thoughts or losing someone they loved to suicide. It was a lot of emotion to take in, to be honest. But people told me they were glad I had shared my story. A commonly cited reason was so that more people could understand.

Even when you have experienced this type of pain from any side of the equation, it doesn’t mean you just are able to go out and tell your story. For some, it is too hard. For others, they can’t put it into words. Suicide creates an unbearable, unspeakable, and heartbreaking pain. I have loved writing as long as I can remember – and I do not think I can adequately describe how I felt when I was suicidal. I cannot fully capture its essence and the pain that goes with it. It’s a silent scream that you choke on in your throat. It’s a fire that fills your mind. And you want to be free from it. But it feels as if it has latched onto your soul. I’m still not describing it fully.

There’s a lot to learn from this. It is also really hard to understand how such an intense pain can be so invisible. For something so painful, it can be well-hidden. And how the hell is any of this supposed to make any sense? That’s why we need to talk about it, put what we can into words so that others can see what this illness means. Since this death, I have seen a former classmate commit suicide. The son of a former teacher. A myriad of celebrities. Too many soldiers and veterans. In 2017, more first responders died by suicide than in the line of duty. We say it needs to stop, we say that it is horrible and such a tragedy – and then we move on. We fall back into our lives, ignoring the issue until it hits our radar again.

Death, while a natural part of life, is one of the hardest parts of life to get through for those you leave behind. With a suicide, there is no explanation. There is no understanding. How can you believe that they are at peace?

Oddly enough, I think of a Muppet Christmas Carol (the best version of Dickens’ Christmas Carol, in my opinion). Upon the death of his son, Kermit the Frog/Bob Cratchit looks to comfort his family, “It’s alright, children. Life is full of meetings, and partings; that is the way of it. I am sure that we will never forget Tiny Tim, or this first parting that was among us.”

He’s not wrong. Thinking that you had years left with someone only to have them taken away is heartbreaking. But trying to understand their suicide is pretty much damn near impossible, I’d say.

I don’t want to have to see anyone ever go through the pain of losing someone to suicide again. It’s a cycle, especially when it happens to someone famous. We saw that it is a shame, we need to erase the stigma, move on, and repeat. Nothing gets done.

There is still so much work to be done. Basically, when he died, I started talking about mental illness and never really stopped. I don’t think I will.

I know that it isn’t exactly practical to have a goal of completely eradicating suicide through education. But if I can educate one person who later makes a difference? That’s huge. Maybe they reach out to someone struggling. Maybe someone struggling learns that they are not alone.

Some might roll their eyes at me, especially because there is such a misunderstanding towards mental illness. But I’m stubborn here.

That December day, the world lost a great man. He was a unique soul; I can’t even think of anyone similar to him. His demons overcame him. The world suffers for his loss.

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To me, its twofold. The world needs you. The world wants you to please stay. The illness says differently, and that is really hard to fight against.  You think you are alone. You are not alone. I promise you.

I felt so helpless to my friends. I didn’t have much to offer outside of a hug.  They were hurting. I didn’t want any of them to blame themselves. That’s what makes it so important to understand mental illness. I didn’t want anyone to feel the pain they felt again.

People wonder what they can do. I totally understand that it can be really freaking awkward. I know in my own case, that, bless him, a friend and mentor of mine often doesn’t know what to do at all for fear of upsetting me more but just wants to try to help. I get that I am an emotional minefield. We know it isn’t easy.

But reaching out can make one hell of a difference. It doesn’t need to be any type of attempt to solve our problems. There isn’t any miracle answer. A mixture of drugs, therapy, and other methods can take years to make a difference. No one is expecting a text message to be life changing.

You know what reaching out does offer? Hope. They might feel less alone. It might make them smile when they don’t know the last time that they did.

I think that there is a misconception that when you reach out to someone suffering from mental illness, it needs to be “I’m here for you,” “how can I help,” or “you can always talk to me.” And I think people can be afraid of committing so directly because they have a fear of hurting rather than helping. And I get it. This can be some hardcore shit.

But here’s the secret. A little bit of good goes a helluva long way. Starting a conversation or asking someone to get coffee can mean everything in the world. Seems too simple, right? We, as a society, underestimate what good can do. We are bombarded constantly with horrible news stories. But how quickly do we move on, and they leave us? We are more likely to share the feel-good stories, to spread that warm and fuzzy feeling to others. It’s kind of the same thing.

Or look at it this way. Think of some water. That’s the bad; the mental illness. Drop a pebble into it. It ripples all throughout. That tiny, seemingly insignificant pebble can impact a lot of water. The pebble is the good. It spreads. Its reach is far and wide. You don’t need a lot to make a difference.

There have been stories of a stranger smiling or saying hello to someone suicidal makes that person change their mind. I know someone who, with a group, was able to help someone literally in that moment. That little bit of hope. It is truly powerful.

The one thing we can’t do is question what would have made a difference to others. We can’t change the past. Instead, we move forward to remember them. It might be too late for them, but we can help others for them.

Together, we can make a difference. We can erase the stigma behind mental illness and increase the knowledge of others. One day, talking about depression and anxiety will be as nonchalant as a broken arm. Mental health is just as important as physical health.

The world is ours to change. I have hope that we can.

 

One Day at a Time

I have had lots of great ideas lately. In fact, I have several blog posts in the works. I think they’ll be pretty good once I actually write them. But that drive hasn’t been there, the light bulb hasn’t really gone off. That is a pretty good summary of how I’ve been feeling lately. I am the light bulb, and my productivity is flickering.
With those flickers, my thoughts have been all over the place. Recently, I wrote about finding motivation in failure. While I still believe what I wrote, I am having a hard time with a lot of things. Falling back into that horrible routine of not being able to get out of bed, of convincing myself to get up and take a shower, and just doing everything I can to get by day after day.
As indifferent as I felt to most things, my lack of exercise was really bothering me. When it came to dieting and eating healthy, I had a goal in place. I started Invisalign about three weeks ago – I can only drink water with them in and I wear them around 22 hours a day. So it has really cut down on my Coca Cola addiction and my snacking…mainly because its too inconvenient. It has been small changes, but still change.
Unfortunately, this had no impact on the mental aspect of my health. The demons were there, front and center. It felt like any second my thoughts had quieted, they raged, reminding me that I failed. That I had never gotten this stupid fitness thing to work out before, what would be the difference now? These thoughts lit me on fire. Not in the sense that it reignited my passion to meet my goals, but in the sense it felt like a slow burn; that these thoughts were to leave a permanent scar on my mind.
I covered up the scar before with a tattoo. A daisy, a reminder that something beautiful can grow from pain. But it still burned.
The temptation was strong, it was there, it told me I deserved it. It was my failure. There was no point to keep trying. It wasn’t going to make a difference. I had not yet reached my goals when it came to working out. I fell off from Weight Watchers and never got back into it. I wasn’t liking what I was seeing. My struggle was apparent in more ways than just aesthetic and gaining weight.
It had led to me failing in a way that was painful to face, and I didn’t see a way to come back from that. I forced myself to face the conclusion that it wasn’t meant for me. It made me sick to my stomach but I told myself some realities needed to be faced, and they weren’t always what we wanted to see. It was breaking my heart, but I told myself I had to face this.
Some told me I had to do what’s right for me. Others told me it would make me miserable. And then there were those who said I wasn’t giving up, that that wasn’t who I was.
I’m still waiting for my Apollo Creed to show up, by the way.
Facing your failure and accepting it as a reality sucks. It was painful; I felt like I was being torn apart. And I’m pretty sure this drove me deeper into depression which didn’t help anything and continued the cycle. My depression only solidified my idea that this was it and I had to accept it.
I felt a lot of mental turmoil. I went back and forth on what to do. I didn’t reach out to anyone. I only told a select few that I thought I was slipping back, and even then, I didn’t give the entire scope.
When it came to this, I was afraid to reach out to anyone. Putting it in a blog post is still easier than telling someone directly. I felt like it didn’t matter. That I would be brushed off as overreacting. That it would be okay, even though everything in the past indicated otherwise. I also knew how emotional it made me and didn’t know how to get the words out. I’m still not.
I had plans, dammit. I had goals. I didn’t know what was holding me back. And the first person to tell me that the only thing holding me back is myself is most likely going to get slapped in the face because I’m fucking depressed and anxious all the time. I am what is holding me back. Or rather, the illness is. But I digress. The point is, I don’t know how to beat this. I know I have people in my corner, but it takes a helluva lot of build up to reach out or bring it up. Sometimes, it doesn’t let me reach out. And then I have never felt more alone.
It is a jumble of thoughts that I can’t untangle, even though I know the end goal. There is still part of me that feels like I can do this, that I can fight. But something still feels like its missing. I don’t know what that is.
I reached out, anonymously, for advice on a forum. It wasn’t so much reaching out for advice as it was to put it out there. I mean, I wasn’t totally specific but enough that I felt like it was out there. I really didn’t expect advice.
I also didn’t expect to sob. I just broke down. I realized how lost I felt.
I had made plans to go the gym the next day. Instead of going before work as I liked to do, I was going to go after work. I couldn’t do that all the time because it wouldn’t fit with my schedule. I really like to plan ahead and keep a routine; I had to tell myself more than once to take it one day at a time.
I was nervous to go to the gym. I have absolutely no idea why. Initially, I thought about taking a kickboxing class but that idea really made me anxious (would I be able to keep up, would it be overwhelming, etc.) so I decided against that.


I really love kettlebell. It’s good for endurance and I feel good from it. Also, it kicks my ass. So I decided to start with that. I took a 15 pound weight for the two handed exercises and a ten pound weight for the single hand ones. There were a couple times where I thought about upping my weight but ultimately convinced myself against it. Again, one day at a time. I think that was part of my problem before. I wanted to go back and go off running. In retrospect, I don’t think that was the best idea physically or mentally. I was setting expectations too high.
But today, my kettlebell workout? It felt good. I was gross. Like dripping sweat gross. But I did it. I was okay. My workout playlist on Spotify was on point today. I shuffled it, and it kept giving me songs from the Rocky soundtrack. Is there anything more inspiring? Win.
After kettlebell, I did the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine. My cardio endurance sucks. I hate admitting this in some ways, but I only did five minutes. And I took a couple ten second breaks in there. I also haven’t worked out since mid-July. It’s going to take time. I guarantee tomorrow I feel it in my legs. But the next time it might get easier. I’ve thought about buying a cheap, foldable one. The rowing machine is like my nemesis. I hate that thing. But I really want to build up my cardio endurance. And, I’ll admit, it is a good workout.
I finished with yoga. That is a habit of mine. A few minutes of yoga to wind down and relax. I was still pretty gross. But I really felt like I did something in the right direction. I had a hope that I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was slow, but it was steady and it was there.
When I was exercising, I thought of great things to put in this post. I felt motivated. I don’t think they actually made it into the post, but overall I think I got the point across.
My tank said “Just do it, don’t quit.” When I bought it, I sent it to my brother and told him I thought it was a sign. Seeing that reflected back in the mirror helped me today, I think.
Tomorrow? I’m probably not going to be able to workout. I did like working out after work, at least until I get my energy/sleep problems worked out. I told myself that it was okay. I’m just getting started back up. And I am probably going to be pretty sore tomorrow, if I am being honest.
I hope its a step in the right direction. I don’t know what kind of success that it’ll result in, if any. But it is something. A small step is still a step.
When I started writing this post, I turned on Spotify and shuffled songs. Lin-Manuel Miranda sang out that he was not going to throw his shot. Me too.
I have to still try.