This morning, as I went through my usual routines, it occurred to me that I might be in a funk. It’s funny how these things sneak up on you. It’s like being in a store and realizing they are playing Christmas music, then running, screaming, from the store.
Well, maybe not quite like that.
I’m no funkologist and my self-diagnosis could be off, but I think it’s a combo of factors:
- Stress from various sources has been accruing.
- My diet (re: snacking) has deteriorated as I seek comfort in delicious calories.
- The urge to pursue creative stuff (drawing, writing–such as on this blog) has waned in favour of more passive pursuits–not exactly doomscrolling, but maybe things adjacent to that.
- I have missed a few runs due to circumstances, but yesterday I just did not go. This is probably the biggest warning sign. Running is a very Zen pursuit for me, so deliberately avoiding it is a good signal that something is amiss1Not counting not wanting to run in torrential rain, which has happened a few times lately.
I don’t think I can pin the start on any one thing, but perhaps a tipping point may have been when I chatted with the cardiothoracic surgeon and got confirmation that surgery is in my future, barring some imminent breakthrough in medical technology. I think it has rattled me, because it’s made me start going through various “What if?” scenarios where the harmless little blob to be removed may be less than harmless. Or more broadly, it’s possibly set off subconscious thoughts about mortality in general. I’m not sure. The brain is a strange place.
But being aware is the start of making changes for the better, so here I am writing, even if it’s just to acknowledge the thing, hopefully with more helpful changes to come. And I promise not to buy Pop-Tarts, even if they are on sale.
In conclusion, writing cat:
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