My alarm went off. I lie in bed, feeling the weight of the week and my age. The dogs stir and look at me; I wonder if they are getting up. I consider my Treatment Plan, this blog and my accountability, and I choose to listen to my body. I reset the alarm to 06:00, wondering if this week has taught me something: I need more than seven hours of sleep a night.
After arriving at a fitness class, the instructor asked, “How are you?”
“Great! I have had a really good week,” I replied
Stop. The. Bus. This week almost has been a carbon copy of last week in terms of external stressors. Perhaps more so. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. I feel better due to this flipping Treatment Plan. It just struck me. Fuck. I have been viewing this Treatment Plan and blog as a one-year thing and then “back to normal”. Like a diet of sorts. I really did not think doing these small things would make that big of a difference. I mean, yes, I know what clinical studies show and how I see my patients respond to these changes. However, to be “sitting in it” is much different. I feel so much better – like, really really good. Does this mean … that I … won’t ever … [insert behavior here]
[Imagines self doing Home Alone scream throughout apartment]
Nope. Nope. Nope. Not going there. Today is day four, and that’s all that I am thinking about. I have to focus on getting through the weekend: keeping my sleep schedule and not having a Pilsner are going to take some fortitude and tenacity.
“Are you with me?”, I ask my dog. Who am I kidding? She likes the patios of our City more than me. [eyeroll]
As I ripped stems off spinach leaves, I knew what I had been avoiding all week: I need a plan for tonight. It’s Friday. Historically in the summer, Friday night has meant meeting my partner and our dogs at one of the neighborhood taverns with a patio, popping open a Pilsner (or three) and sitting in the loveliness of it all. A city that I love. Sarcastic servers. Neighborhood changes. Dogs’ chilling and squinting into the sun. The name on the tavern has changed during the past seven years, but one of our dogs has been coming here on Fridays in the summer for all seven. She commands the patio by lying in the middle, eyeing servers’ trays of food. I feel as if I belong there. Like many urban dwellers, these places are extensions of my 950 s.f. home.
I could go there and order a soda water with a lime, but I know my brain: it’s an asshole. Here’s how it would go: “You’ve worked really hard this week.” “The CDC states that one serving of ETOH a day is not harmful.” “You have the calories left for the day.” And on and on. I know in my heart that I would not make a good choice today. So, I need a plan.
I call my partner at work, one of the two calls that I typically make every morning. We make plans to see “Atomic Blonde” that evening after work.
My last patient was super anxious. Empathy has my cage rattled as well – I feel their anxiety and agitation in the room and in my body. As I turn off light switches and white noise machines, I think ahead to the evening ride to the heart of my City.
Swinging my leg over the top bar, I knew what was inevitable: a long, exhausting ride through Friday evening traffic. My saddle is too low on my bicycle. Whilst I am in the bicycle lane, ride-share drivers, double parkers and taxi cabs cause me to weave in and out of moving and standing traffic. I try to stay in the moment, enjoying music from my speaker and feeling the air move across my face. However, it’s there: the hyper-vigilance of ringing my bell, saying “heads up” and constantly looking over my shoulder and to the right for car doors. I lock up my bike, and my shoulders refuse to release the stress of the ride.
My partner and I planned to meet for a cheeseburger before the film. I arrive first, and the line is at least 30-people deep. I wonder how this could be since it is not lunchtime. “Shouldn’t this area of the City be dead by now?”, I wonder. My partner arrives and reminds me that tourists and suburban teenagers stay long after weary workers head home to their neighborhoods. Getting hangry, I watch every, single person order individually. It has now been 30 minutes, and I want to yell, “How have you not read the menu after 30 minutes in line?! Speed it up!” I am that asshole. Instead, I roll my eyes. As the line shortens, so does my patience and will. I order a chocolate shake. Not. Part. Of. The. Plan. A case of the “fuck its” has set in. I am done. I am toast. I want a g’d-damned shake and about 5,000 people inside this restaurant, outside on the sidewalk and parked in rush hour on the streets to go the fuck away so I can enjoy my evening.
Our food arrives, and we rush to eat it so that we can make it to the movie on time. We step outside onto the sidewalk, bobbing and weaving to get through crowds of tourists and suburban teenagers – some stopping dead in their tracks as they convene to decide what to do next. My legs feel leaden from the previous day’s riding and this morning’s strength training. I am exhausted, and now my stomach feels bloated and gross from the shake. My body hates dairy, and I always crash hard after eating sugar. “Every fucking thing has a consequence. I hate being an adult,” I think.
The theater lobby is quiet and cool. Everything is hidden now: people-less kiosks at which to buy tickets and paper-less smart phones that hold tickets. My partner buys his beer, and I am jealous and not jealous. I don’t want to drink ETOH, and I want my anxiety and irritability to shut down. We find our seats and settle in.
The soundtrack to the film was amazing, and I find it on my smart phone for us to listen to on the bicycle ride home. My partner and I manage to avoid right hooks, car doors and drunken pedestrians until we hit a quiet neighborhood street. They pull up beside me, and we smile. This is the best part of every late night ride. It is interrupted by my partner’s annoyance – likely exacerbated by their flight-or-fight response – at a driver’s almost right hook of me. A few blocks later, they comment on the driver again. The peace is broken. “Can we just leave the driver back there – two blocks ago?”, I ask. In the moment, I know that I am a hypocrite, that I did the same thing at the restaurant earlier: let the intrusions of the City poke at me until I was lashing out, dividing people into us/them. They know it too but say nothing.
We carry our bicycles up six steps in the lobby, and I have seven minutes to get into bed. My partner mentions something about partially reading an email, and I make a passive aggressive comment about their attention-deficit disordered thinking. It was not intended as a low blow, but it landed as such.
I crawl into bed and try to talk to my partner. They are not having it. We are both depleted. I fall asleep sad and feeling awful.