Worn Out, OR: Gotta Have Heart

I am officially sick of taking care of myself.

Why bother to limit my alcohol intake?  Why should I avoid sugar and caffeine?  Why make the effort to exercise?  I worked so hard to instill these habits four years ago because I wanted to get healthy.  And where has it gotten me?

Fuck-all nowhere.

OK, it worked for awhile.  I lost 60 lbs.  I got in shape.  I got organized.  Let me say that again: I, that is to say, Addy Bell, got organized.  If you'd seen my report cards from elementary school you'd know what a miraculous feat that is.  Anyway, as a result of working my ass off, my depression lessened, my ADHD symptoms improved, and I felt better than I had in years.  For the first time in my life, I was in control.

That is, until I wasn't.  Until I went nuts.  Until I had to spend an entire year rebuilding my brain from the ground up.  So much for control.

Lately, I haven't been moody, and I haven't felt sad.  I just feel tired and pointless.  Why put in the effort when past experience tells me that no matter how hard I work, I will fail?  And not just fail, but burn down, fall over, and sink into the swamp?

It would be easier to get off my ass and do something, anything, if I felt like I had any efficacy at all.  But I can't even remember what it feels like to feel a sense of control, to feel like what I do matters, to feel like I can effect the outcome of my own life.  Sure, I can put in the effort, I can work my ass off, but that won't make the Universe take down the "kick me" sign it's had on my back for the last two years.

Maybe if I just lie low, life won't notice me and will leave me alone.

But I can't think like that.  I know I can't.  Because I know that I have to take care of myself, or things will get even worse, and thinking so negatively is bad self care, and is practically a guarantee that things will get worse.  So I need to keep my chin up, stiff upper lip, put on my game face, and all that.  I gotta have heart, right?  Lots and lots and lots of heart!  Gotta keep singing Damn Yankees in my head.

And I guess, for me, for now, that's what success is.  Other people get to feel successful when they land a job, or a promotion, or a raise.  Or when they watch their children sharing a toy on the playground and they think to themselves, hey, I taught them that.  Me?  My success is measured in my ability to talk myself up from the depths of bitter despair, a place where I've landed because, well, my success is measured in my ability to talk myself up from the depths of bitter despair.

Only I can't think like that.  Gotta have heart.  Gotta have heart.  Gotta have heart.

P.S.: Damn Yankees.