Well I have definitely found my drug of choice, writing fiction. Like a true addict, I can spend days absorbed in the world of my creation, completely ignoring this thing called reality. While I'm making great progress on my book, everything else in my life is suffering. But this seems to be the way it goes. If I'm productive and stick to a schedule, like going to bed on time and keeping the house clean a little bit each day, there isn't any time to write. If I write, I get all cracked-out, and don't care about the laundry piling up around my feet, or fact that there is nothing in the house to eat. When I do break out of sheer necessity, I complain. As I'm cooking, I'm loudly proclaiming how much I hate cooking. Putting off my 2 hour juicing marathon until 10:30 at night is a great way to ensure I don't go to bed until at least 3am. And please, for the love of all things holy, don't even mention paying the bills!
All I wanted, for the last few years, is to be able to count on myself. Set a schedule and stick to a routine. Actually keep my affairs in order, not meltdown every time something catastrophic happens due to neglect. It's exceptionally hard to do this, though, when one feels like they are getting the flu every other day, and are in constant, writhing pain. The mental anguish of Fibromyalgia, and what it did to my life, was often worse than the physical symptoms. But my stars have finally aligned. All my weird, healthy eating quirks, and refusal to indulge my negativity, has paid off. So what do I do? Stop doing nearly every darn thing necessary to keep my life in order and moving forward. Except for writing my book.
Sigh. Balance, discipline and accountability, where are you? My sense of motivation likes beginnings. The start of every week is an opportunity to do better. I certainly wouldn't expect my horrid habits to change on a Wednesday, now would I? Being less than a month away from a new year is like winning the lottery for my motivation. Oh, all the wonderful ways I can change my life! If I just set a routine, and actually stick to it, that is. So I'm pondering...planning...trying to pay attention to my pitfalls, and hopefully avoid stepping into them. Recognizing the power to change everything lies with me, and me alone. Each person I blame for thwarting my progress, or flare that reminds me what a living hell living with Fibromyalgia is, it's all part of the puzzle of life to fit together. My puzzle. My opportunity. My responsibility. But before I start on all that, I just need to add one more thing to chapter 12...
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