I just realized I haven’t watched anything but Stevie Nicks documentaries and live concerts on DVD in a while. Typically, I only allow myself to listen to music when I’m exercising because it’s the only way to get me to do it. Lately, it’s all I do in my free time, but it hasn’t been long enough to mess up my exercise bribery scheme. Whew. (I don’t have a Plan B.) I guess tomorrow will be a long run, and that’ll be my only music fix for the day. I’m going to listen to In Your Dreams by Stevie Nicks, and The Open Door by Evanescence, and Tuesday Night Music Club by Sheryl Crow.
If it plays longer than my route, I’ll keep listening while I stretch. I’m already looking forward to it. I’m going to feel like Wonder Woman. I’m off Prozac for the rest of the summer. Or, I guess I should say until it snows. So who knows, but as long as I can run outside. I don’t like to run for more than an hour at a time on the treadmill, but I can break it up. After my fall last winter, I’m too paranoid about falling again (on the ice outside in the snowy weather, where my imagination has assured me in advance I’ll die miserably.)
Note: In my particular case, if I eat wisely, and do four hours of cardio per day, I feel exactly the same as when I take 20mg of Prozac per day, (minus the side-effects.) If I do two hours of cardio per day, I’m uncomfortably close to frustration overload 24/7, but I can survive. Less, and things go downhill quickly about two months after my last dose. I’m weird. Don’t try this at home. Besides, finding out how many hours of exercise it takes per day to be the best me possible is exactly as fun as it sounds. So do what’s right for you.
The thing about Prozac is this: It interferes with creativity, sex drive, and for some people, appetite. In my case, no sex drive, (and I started taking it soon after I realized I even had a sex drive.) If you don’t know your sexual identity yet, don’t take Prozac. I was a late bloomer. I thought boys were gross until I met my ex-husband at nineteen. If anything, it decreases my appetite when I’m initially adjusting. It also makes me extremely sleepy for the first few weeks. Others become overeaters for the first time in their lives. It’s mean like that.
I want to turn off my Muse-repelling force field known as Prozac so I can do some artwork and find out the rest of this melody that keeps haunting me. I don’t have it as bad as some. I can ignore the urge to create if there’s something I’d rather do. The Muse is a gentle whisper in the night for me. For some people, she’s also a bitch with handcuffs. But they’re usually outstanding at what they do so it might be fair. I’m not sure how much choice they have in the matter. They’re probably too busy being awesome to care.
I’m feeling balanced again, thank goodness. You’d think after years of coping with PTSD I wouldn’t get so freaked out every time I hit a rough patch. Nope. I freak out every fucking time. I imagine it’s like being in a fire. No matter how many times it happens, it’s always alarming. Plus, I think my mind lets me keep most of those times in short term memory. Yay brain. I finally let M. help me adjust my drum kit. It was noticeably leaning because I loosened something I regret, and it just happened.
I was still playing on them after a few adjustments (without fucking with the rack.) Now that M. helped, I’m a bit blown away by how much difference it makes. It was worth the kick in the nuts to my ego. I got over myself immediately after I started playing. I’m starting to get pretty good. I’m almost confident enough to start creating my own beats. I only lack the practice hours. My stamina is better, my timing is my strongest skill, and I rarely drop sticks anymore. The part on my fingers where I lost the skin before getting gloves is calloused, but it’s barely noticeable (compared to what strings do to fingertips.)
I’m so happy to be feeling better. I got busted singing twice today, but I tend to do it constantly when I’m happy. It’s almost as good as the relief I feel after passing a kidney stone. It’s a shame they can’t bottle the post kidney stone feeling and sell it as a drug. On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing you have to suffer intensely for a while before you get to experience it. It makes it addiction-proof as fuck. I just cracked myself up.
I’m off to finish deep cleaning the carpet while listening to the rest of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate from Audible. I love him. I probably look silly laughing for no apparent reason every few minutes, but it’s excellent. It’s helping me cope, and teaching me a lot about politics (in a way that doesn’t make my eyes glaze over.) I forgot how powerful humor can be in learning. If you want my full attention, make me laugh. It’s my favorite thing to do in the world.