September 5th, 2014


(no subject)

"My chest hurts," I replied without giving it a second thought. The question she asked was the easiest to answer of the ones I usually heard: Now that I have the full complement of pills and patches, what's changed?

The answer was true, but almost flippant. The pain from the nascent development was obvious. More changed than that, but most of it isn't so easily quantifiable. I'd noticed, though, that my mood was changing. Not so easily was I depressed as had been the case for the last 30-some years.

The question of whether I was riding the right bicycle had come up again recently, as it had many times before. "It's done me fine," I said. Besides, there wasn't money or space for a bike designed for the road. The compromise was a compromise. But I was scared to change. What if riding something a little harder than I needed, a little heavier than required, had gotten me to this point of fitness? Would I be able to maintain it on a "better" bike? The question paralleled my fear of getting treatment for depression. What if the answer was a drug? What it if threw off the fragile balance of life, if it squashed my creative instincts, if it ruined the things that make life special?

Well, here was that change. It wasn't complete, and it wasn't how I expected to get there, but here it was. And, so far, the fears were unfounded.

Step 66: You can't control change, because or in spite of your fears. Work on controlling what you can: the fear.