We finally had our Christmas dinner this week. That’s how craptastic the last few weeks have been for us here at The Compound.*

All of us have been waylaid by various icks, and though none of us feel as good as we’d like, we were at least able to yank the Christmas ham out of the freezer.

I’ve started doing some somatic yoga. I fell out of bed (bed!) after taking half (half!) a Xanax and bruised my rib. Something has got to give. Everything medicinal that helps my anxiety exaggerates my muscle weakness and fatigue. I even stopped taking melatonin to help me sleep.

That surgical biopsy on February 2 can’t get here fast enough. I’m trying to be nice to my broken body, but it’s being an unreasonable asshole. 

The jerk!

Oh yeah, the yoga. So, depending on the delivery, somatic yoga instructors can be kind of like physical therapists. They can also be full of horseshit. The part that’s good for me about it is the part where you can do it from a chair or bed. I’m focusing on my neck and shoulders.

Though I don’t have any formal diagnosis, I’ve got some kind of frozen shoulder or compartment syndrome situation going on. It’s helping some, and I will keep doing anything that relieves even a fraction of a percent of my pain 

You know what? Not that anyone would say this to my face, but just so I remind myself: anyone who says I’ve given up is a damn liar.

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* Multi-generational housing going on up in here. Mom, Dan, me, and two cats. I don’t know what else to call it.

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