Even my boobs hurt.

At the time I was doing Level 1 of 30 Day Shred I was thinking, “Wow, I can’t breathe. Sweat is pouring down my face. I’m going to die!”
Little did I know that this morning I would wake up barely able to move. My shoulder sockets hurt. My BOOBS hurt. My hip muscle—which I do not even know the name for (tensor fascia lata??)—is wound tighter than a … a…I don’t even know! My sartorius, illiacus, MARCUS AURELIUS. It all hurts. Not just hurts, it burns, it screams, it aches.

I had to ROLL out of bed. I have an extra tall babygate that blocks off the little nook that leads into the crackwhore room (that is a long story. trust me. but let it be known it is not a misnomer or said for kicks—it is the God’s honest truth…) or the bathroom, the doors are across from each other. This is also where I keep the litterbox and the dogs love to raid said litterbox, so the babygate is necessary to thwart them. My dogs can climb, leap or bust down a regular babygate. I’m taller than average (by like an inch—whatever!) so it’s not hard for me to swing my leg over the gate and I do it 50 times a day with no problem. Except this morning. I had to all but throw myself over it, grabbing helplessly at the doorframes to try to keep from falling. Showering, shampooing, putting on clothes…it was all I could do not to cry in agony. Two naproxen sodium pills DID NOTHING to alleviate the soreness.

Yesterday I worked 7 hours (normally I do 6), took the dogs on an almost 2 mile walk, cooked dinner and was left with nothing important to do by the time the clock hit 9 PM. I’m telling you—when I get a lot done, I always seem to have hours and hours of free time. Amazing how that “magically” happens. The 2 mile walk was impromptu—it was getting dark, but the weather was decent (not bitter cold or raining) and the dogs are bad enough when they do get exercise, so three days without a walk was making them into unbearable monsters. It’s amazing that that walk took me a half hour—last year that same amount of time would have gotten me to the corner of Harrison and back…this time I walked all the way to Broadway, around to 46th, back onto 45th and to my house. Despite feeling weak and sore, I did the walk anyway, because the dogs deserved it. I mean, I’m finally walking at a pace that makes their tongues hang out and they’re tired when they get home. That is worth all the pain I’m feeling. I absolutely love my dogs. I can’t imagine a life without them. It trascendes pet ownership—but I do not confuse them with human beings. Otherwise I wouldn’t love them as much as I do.
Creepy or not, my goal is to have a baby while Judah is still alive. I want to have a homebirth and I want Judah present. Boy or girl, I will name my first born Judah. If a girl, she’ll be named Judah Rhiannon (other name spending). If a boy, he’ll be named Judah Stjepan Edward Milorad Pavlovich.

I’m praying that I’ll be able to do Level 1 again when I get home tonight, hoping that I can recover. Even if I can only finish a few minutes, it’ll be better than not doing it. My goal is to always push through and not worry about not finishing this time, but just keep going. Because if I can make myself do a little bit, it’ll make me do a lot the next time around. I’ve discovered that every little bit counts and it all adds up in the end.

I also finished yet another section of the vampire’s book. This scares me. Not only because now I’m approaching the part where everything goes downhill faster and faster, but because I’m losing him. Why else does he still talk to me except that I have his precious book? It hurts to type it out, to reread it, to see him doing the exact same things he did to get himself where he is now—in prison. Worse than that is he is abusing drugs again. I knew it was going to happen, but I had false hopes something in his twisted, messed up brain would change and he could finally heal. I was of course setting myself up for disappointment. It doesn’t keep me from praying for him and hoping against all odds that he can recover…but you can’t make someone change just because you love them more than they love themselves. It just doesn’t work that way, unfortunately.
So I struggle and cry through his description of finally going from snorting heroin to shooting up…and it’s heartbreaking. When I reread this one particular part it literally felt like my heart broke. It was like having him whisper in my ear, “I will always be a lost cause. I can’t love or be loved, I only know how to be what I am—a junkie. Happiness is a snort of coke or a needle in my arm. I know no other way to exist.” And that hurts more than anything else—even the pain I’ve inflicted on my own body. No matter how hard I pray, how much I wish and hope and love him…it will never be enough.

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