I often write to figure out what I'm thinking. I have trouble with concepts that I can't put in words. That's just how my brain works; I don't do pictures, I do words. I have feelings, but I can't make sense of them until I find words for them.
And so it is unusual that I have nothing to put into words. I could tell you how much pain I'm in -- my thighs are still sore from Friday night, and my abdomen has sharp, shooting pains that make me never want to eat again as long as I live. I could easily rant about all the f*ck ups I know -- people who forget conference calls, who can't plan, who just seem to get a pass no matter what and who they blow off. I could tell you how tired I am, but I think I've probably already done that.
After a therapy session, I try to hold onto key words. This week's key-est words were something about being human -- no, something about how nuts I am for acting as if I am super-human, as if I can do what nobody else can do -- go days without food, with water only, engage in physical activity, and act as if there will be no consequences. Nuts. I. Am. This sick body can't even do what healthy people can do, not to mention a body that's depleted before I even step out my door. And this surprises me? I mean, really. Really?
I loved spending time with Mike. I got to tell him more about the day-to-day activities of Advocacy for Patients so he would know where the fruits of his fundraising labors are going. And I love spending time with Ashley. Shopping with her reminds me of days when I was in my early teens and I used to go shopping with my mother and she would just take this... and this... and this... -- things flying off the racks into bags and bags full of clothes we'd take home that she'd then give away to Margy's mom or the housekeeper or whomever. Ashley's far saner than my mother ever was, though, for sure.
Listening to Pearl Jam Radio as I write this. The acoustic/string version of Lukin -- dubbed Lukin II -- so gorgeous, beyond my imagination.
The whole way my life has become interconnected with Pearl Jam is really funny if you think about the fact that I'm going to be 53 in 3 weeks. When Pearl Jam released Ten in 1991, I was 34 years old . . . finishing my clerkship and transitioning to Connecticut and the practice of law. I was a classic rock fan, for sure -- for me, it's always been either my James Taylor mood or my Bruce Springsteen mood. Toss in the Beatles, the Who, Stones, Led Zep on the rock side; Carole King, Simon & Garf on the folk side. I never listened to Pearl Jam, never gave them a chance, just like I rarely listen to new artists today. Who has time? And money?
And now, without Pearl Jam, there is no Advocacy for Patients, and without Advocacy for Patients, I have no clue what I would be doing with my life. And the music has become as much a part of it all as Mike and Ashley. And then there's Wishlist, the fan-based nonprofit -- I'm not supposed to single out Laura and Eric, but they make everything happen, with the able help of some new faces for me this time out -- mostly Lisa and a handful of others. And then there's Facebook. I'm "friends" with pretty much everybody on Facebook who's into Pearl Jam. I bet I'm the oldest one.
It's a good thing I genuinely like rock and roll. I genuinely LOVE Pearl Jam.
But yeah, today's message is that thinking I was super-human and could abuse my body like that, thinking that I'd be fine without food for a couple of days as long as I drank enough water -- Nuts. I. Am. Really.
And there's the alarm on my Blackberry. Time to tuck away all of this -- all the things that matter to me right now -- and adopt the agenda of the Advocacy for Patients board. That's all the time I have to spend on stream-of-consciousness introspection. Time to wake up. *POOF* Jennifer the lawyer returns. Jennifer