…the truth is…

The truth is;  I did go to the gym today as I said in my first post of the day; but here’s what really happened. You see . . . well . . . the thing is . . .

The truth is;  I needed, badly, to sweat out some bad moments to which I have been holding on.

The truth is; sometimes you stop breathing. Not that time when you die. Those smaller expirations. Something happens and you forget to breathe, your heart stops. If you’re wise, you pay attention. You realize there is a problem.

The truth is; I’ve been having a few bad days.

The truth is; I no longer think such days are the end of the world. Instead, I think it’s okay to have bad days, and a good thing to watch when you stop breathing, and the right thing to consider it and think about the story you’ve told yourself.

The truth is;  you should do that rather than sublimate. You work it through. You keep walking.

The truth is; I used to write about all those moments.

The truth is; I stopped. No one needed to hear any more of them. I didn’t need to indulge in the self-pity that came from writing about them.

The truth is; I tell better stories now. People would rather read “funny” and “snarky” than down and depressed and woe is me. But, in my wish NOT to impose my stopped-breath moments on a world full of people who are having enough of their own breathless adventures, sometimes I take the truth and make it into something heightened and so entirely fictive it is unrecognizable. Which is also, in truth, okay.

The truth is; I went to the gym and met a friend who recognizes when I am having these days, recognizes when I don’t want to talk about it, honors why I would rather sweat it out, and so made me do leg lifts and planks and rowing and get my heart rate somewhere close to my weight.

The truth is; I need to be finishing a chapter instead of writing a second blog for the day, but, frankly, I want to recline on my bed and watch all the season finales I have missed and troll YouTube for Stephen Sondheim musical clips and keep asking myself silly questions which I pretend are about what’s causing me to tell myself the story about “I am having a bad day” when, in truth, they are more obfuscation than investigation.

The truth is; this is enough truth for the moment.

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