Dear brain and thing downstairs: today, I won´t be having a panic attack. I am going to ignore you, and take deep breaths in between my fits of hyperventilation. Deep, long breaths of I-don´t-give-a-fuck. My oatmeal is on the stove, the sun is shining through the window, I am going to focus on what is good today, instead of the things you want me to obsess about.
I am going to continue with the path I am on. I am going to continue my workouts, my core building, and correcting my posture, to get rid of that lordosis (excessive curving of the lower back which makes walking or sitting upright a challenge). I am going to continue to eat well. In the past two months, ever since I started testosterone, I went from being underweight (58kg) to a decent weight (67 kg).
In terms of weight I went from lifting 2 x 1.25 kg to lifting 2 x 2.50 kg, being able to do dumbbell flies, and improving my push ups, which due to the lordosis was rather hard to do (my back kept sagging). I am noticing improvements in my arms, in my core and in my back. My mood has been gradually stabilizing, until the urinary retention problems and the UTI kicked in, knocking me off my course.
The CRPS in my feet has withdrawn from being this god-awful affliction that had blown up both my feet into unrecognizable shape, and instilling burning pain,to being almost non-existent. I walk everyday, I do yoga. I have given them countless massages, treatments with hot and cold water, magnesium oil and vitamins, and I am now able to run small distances.
You know what, panic attack? I am wondering why you are still around. We make really awful bed fellows, you and I. For the past twenty-five years we have been bickering, and crying, stampeding around in frustration, intentionally and unintentionally destroying all kinds of things, from cups and plates to the bones in my body. And I am just tired of it. I can´t go on with you.
“Got me picking up me pieces,
Got me holding a kitty.
You say, Son of Dave it´s all your fault.
Oh, but now you´re just being shitty“.