Last night I dreamt that I died. (Although it may have been my conscious fears before going to sleep that I’m remembering, because I was convinced that my heart was going to stop at some point, most likely as a symptom of alcohol withdrawal.) The saddest part for me in this scenario is that upon waking I realized that of all things to fixate upon after learning I was dead was the amount of Facebook interactions that my death may have generated. I couldn’t have been any more of a millennial cliche than if I’d gone out and got a tattoo of the poop emoji.

The good news is that Thom told me today he could see that I was making strides to change my life and mindset. (He was referencing the fact I’d both gone to the gym and practiced the banjo.) I’ve been reflecting on this as I sit at work feeling pains in my heart (Real? Imagined?) and awaiting again the inevitable death that will seize me at any minute. It’s great that he noticed the things I highlighted for myself yesterday, but for some reason it made me feel very silly. (Not quite as silly as my thoughts in the first paragraph 😬 however…) Mostly because I have so much farther to go.

My time at the gym was more about being there than it was actively focused on working out. I’m so uncomfortable in that space it takes a lot for me to even be there, let alone do a substantive workout that will help me lose 15 – 20 pounds and gain some confidence in my physique. (Which, let’s be honest, is my main motivation. The fact that it could also help my blood pressure and cholesterol is oddly secondary when I consider the gym.) Getting to a space where I go regularly with a plan and motivation seems ages away.

As for the banjo, that too felt very minimal. I managed to re-attach my armrest (which I broke last week) and semi-attach the resonator but my actual practice time found me fumbling with basic chords and tripping over alternate rhythms. And I feel pressure to practice way more effectively this evening in anticipation of my private lesson tomorrow. But as I texted my sister last week, fretting hurts my fingers.

Now she was generous and assumed I was being clever when I discussed the pain of fretting, because most of my wake time is spent fretting in one way or another. And although I was talking about my fingers on the strings, it does ring true that I am in pain these past few days. Every headache, every heartache, every pang in my side… it brings me back to my uphill battle I’m fighting silently (unless you count this blog) and alone. And I’m not yet sure yet to where it will get me in the end. (A positive report to my therapist this Saturday?!?)

But 48 hours in I’ve stuck to my plan of only two glasses of red wine a day. Which feels pretty good excepting for the fact that tonight I also felt the need to take my second to last klonopin pill. Ah so.