Back when I cared about things

I had ideas

about how my life should be

I had dreams

of what my life could be

I had hopes

of what my life would be

Back when I cared about things

I wanted so much

I wanted my life

to have meaning

I wanted to do good

I wanted to be good

I wanted to be a hero

I wanted to be a poet

I wanted to be a teacher

I wanted to be a man

I wanted beauty in my life

and truth

and love

Back when I cared about things

I saw the beauty in the world

in spite of the horror

I saw the good

in spite of the evil

I saw the hope

in spite of the heartbreak

And I hoped

I tried

I strove

to touch that beauty

to be that good

there was passion in my heart

and poetry in my soul

Back when I cared about things

I always wanted something better

for myself

and for those I loved

I always wanted to make myself better

No matter how bad it got

I never stopped trying

to improve

to grow

to change

myself and my life

so that I could make some difference

in the world

Back when I cared about things

I believed in romance

and true love

in justice

in redemption

in destiny

and that somehow, some way

in the end

everything was going to be alright

But it isn't

And now, none of it matters anymore

Now, none of it means anything to me

Now, all I wish for

is what I've lost

and can never get back

Why am I not writing anymore? A couple of people have asked me, so I guess others may be wondering too.

Honestly, I just have nothing to say. I'm rather tired of it all. And especially, tired of pouring my soul out into the void and hearing nothing back but the echo of my own voice.

But if you want to know what's going on: I did what I said I was going to do when I moved, and started exercising, going to therapy, focusing on my health. Still am, but in a different way than I expected. I had planned to go back to the same routine I used to have: hiking, lifting weights, stretching, etc. But when I did I found that I was experiencing this very strange and very pronounced fatigue and weakness, which I thought at first was just being out of shape. So I kept going for six or eight weeks, but it got even worse, plus I gained weight instead of losing. Put on like 12 pounds in a week or two, and then five more, which doesn't make any sense at all because I was sticking to my diet. There may have been a very moderate increase in overall caloric intake due to hunger from the exercise, but a) it was all still keto, and b) it was nothing like enough to equal 42,000 calories (12 pounds) in a week. 

So, I reached a point, when one day I was getting out of breath cleaning my house, when I called the doctor. Of course, you can probably guess what the first thing he did was: send me to have my heart checked. So, once again, I spent a month or two wondering if either my time had come, or if I was going to live the rest of my life a complete invalid, with a weak and failing heart. Because I wasn't going on the transplant list. Save that heart for someone with a life and a future. Someone with people to love, who need him. 

Why didn't I say anything? To anybody? Because the last time the doctor told me there might be something seriously wrong with me, and I took it seriously, I was called "delusional," and treated with quite a bit of disdain. So I thought I'd just keep it to myself this time.

So what happened? They did the tests, and said that my heart was strong and healthy (and I took the opportunity to tell everyone I had the chance to about the miracle God did with it, all those years ago now). But then what was it? Well, the good news is I finally have a really good physician: best I've had since my childhood pediatrician: I can actually talk to him, and he listens, and we communicate. I think maybe my steps were being directed when I settled in this area, for that reason (among others). Anyway, we figured out that the problem was sleep: I wasn't. A few hours a night, mostly of very poor quality, and the deprivation had accumulated until my body was just completely exhausted, unable to repair itself. It actually goes back quite a ways, and was probably the primary cause of what happened to me on the AT (because I didn't have my cpap). But it had worsened significantly in the past year or two, for obvious reasons. So we did two things: addressed my constant, long-standing, chronic sinus problems, which were keeping me from breathing properly at night, and put me back on ambien, which shuts my brain off and lets me rest. And I'm sleeping. At least, more than I was. Still not perfect, but much, much better.

Also, I had a shoulder impingement, which had started in the RV (probably from sleeping on that thin mattress with a wooden board underneath), and was extremely painful and impeding my exercise. So he sent me to physical therapy, and I've been doing that. And, again luckily, I got someone who really knows what they're doing, and it's helping tremendously not only with my shoulder but with my back. I've always known that my back pain, while not caused by, is definitely worsened by, poor posture. I've actually made attempts to correct it, but was doing it wrong; using the wrong muscles. Now that I've been taught which muscles to use, it's making a very significant difference. It's not going to cure my back, only a genuine miracle could do that, but I think it could lead to a real improvement in the quality of my life.

But, I'm having to go slowly, take it easy, rebuild gradually. It's probably going to be a while before I get back to the trail or the gym. I've been focusing on the physical (and psychological) therapy, and am going to start very soon just walking again, around here and without a pack. 

Oh, and it turns out that the weight gain, which we thought was fluid retention indicating heart problems, was because I had broken down before leaving the place in West Virginia and started taking prozac again. So I stopped that, obviously. Problem is, it actually does help my mood, and so I've got to live without that help.

So that's what I've been doing: mostly going to medical appointments. Doing psychotherapy weekly, for the first time ever. Tried a grief support group, but it didn't work out. I went to mass once. Woke up on a Sunday morning and just felt "led" to go. But haven't been able to bring myself to do it regularly. It's the same as with the blog: just tired of it. Tired of putting myself out there and getting stabbed in the heart. Yes, I know that's not why we go to mass, but it always ends up that people draw you into social interaction. That one Sunday I went, I slipped in, got the sacrament, and slipped out without stopping for coffee hour, but that wouldn't keep working forever, and if it did, it would itself become its own social issue: people would say, "What's with that guy? Why does he never stop to say hello? What is he anti-social?" I actually remember people saying exactly that at another church, about someone else. And not just anybody: a priest. I said, "Maybe he's been hurt at churches until he doesn't want to get involved anymore." Prophetic, unknowingly.

I honestly don't know if I'm going to feel inclined anytime soon, or ever, to start writing here like I did. Sorry to disappoint. My therapist said the other day that I should start journaling again which, for me, is this. But I just...well, to be frank, I'm feeling like I need to close off and protect myself. I've made the conscious and deliberate choice, for all these years, to be intentionally and completely open and vulnerable. And it's resulted in nothing but more and more and more pain, disappointment, and heartbreak. Here's something I said to her, the other day, and I'll share it with you too:

In books, movies, plays, tv shows, there's very often a character who gets his or her heart broken, withdraws, hides from the world in shame and misery. And always, in the stories, there's some friend or group of friends who comes pounding on his door: who barges in, drags him out, says, "Get dresssed (and take a shower!), we're going out." And forces the issue, despite his protests, arguments, and complaints. Which is what he needs. Like Harry, Ron, and Hermione banging on Hagrid's door after it came out that he was half-giant. Who has ever come knocking on my door? Who has ever refused to give up on being my friend? Yes, I know I said I wanted to be alone, and I meant it. But that was only on one level. I was trying to protect myself; alone felt safer. But just like everyone else in the world, there was also some part of me that hoped someone would come anyway. In fact, to be totally, 100% honest, there was a part of me...IS a part of me, that for all these years, every single day, has looked out the window, hoping to see someone driving up my driveway, or walking up to my door. That has, every single time the phone dings that I've got a text or email, hoped deep down that it would be someone who just wanted to spend some time with me. But it hasn't happened. I don't have, and have never had, that group of loyal friends, or even that one single friend, who will come looking for me when I withdraw and disappear: they just let me go. I waited, and I hoped, and I waited, and I hoped, and nobody ever came.

And so what has been the point of all this, and what is the point of continuing to do it? Of me pouring my heart out and making a spectacle and a fool of myself? Entertainment? Amusement? Morbid fascination? Condescending pity? I'm just not up to it anymore. I know that sounds angry and bitter, but maybe I'm entitled to a little bitterness and anger at this point.