It's reasonable to say that I read and write for a living. Sometimes I read more than I write, and sometimes I end up doing a lot of photocopying, talking with profs, lecturing or defending -- but still, my job is basically desk or library rooted. So you'd THINK that any REASONABLE person whose job is so non-physical would be fine with a little forced rest. But I'm so not that reasonable person. I've been told not to run, hike or speed walk for several weeks. I can swim, I can do weights, I can do the recumbent bike if I'm careful. I can still exercise, and I still do, but what I really want to do is run.

I mean really really REALLY want to run. I am jealous when I see people running on the street. I half want to be them and half want to punch them in the head because they probably don't realize how bloody lucky they are.

I never ran until about 6 months ago. Growing up, a had a myriad of annoying health problems related to bone and soft tissue development, plus really flat feet, so I basically sucked at all things running-related. Gym teachers suck ass, even more so that kids in my experience, and did nothing but make me feel like a freak and a failure. It wasn't until I was in my early 20s that I began to realize that I actually could do athletic things, but I might have to do them slower, or differently, because of my body. So I swam and biked and started weight-lifting -- another thing I now love and kick ass at -- and after the debacle of the MA weight gain I committed myself to losing weight. When I'd lost about 30 pounds, I started walking -- fast -- outside, because Victoria is pretty and I wanted to exercise in the fresh air. And one day I started running, and it was as simple as that. I can run -- in fact, I'm a better runner than walker. I never hurt after a run. My posture is better. My hips stay in place. And it feels so fucking good.

But when you break your ankle you gotta let the ankel heal after the cast comes off. Apparently I suck at letting things heal, because about a week after I got the cast off I tried some fast walking with a couple sprints built in. And then some more. And then I was pretty much running half the time and walking half the time. And then I did the treadmill and actually ran more than I walked. And then my ankle went poufy again and I went to my physiotherapist and he looked at me like I was a crazy person (and he's blind, so when he looks at you like a crazy person you know you must be crazy) and told me to stay the heck off my foot -- for at least a few more weeks.

It sucks. Gar.

My name is Doctor t, and I'm a running addict. Detox is really boring.

Yesterday I had an appointment with a therapist to help me deal with my anxiety. I won't go into the details of the meeting here, but it was both exhausting and extremely helpful. I feel like I CAN take control of my anxiety.

This morning I evaluated the various priorities in my life and realized I have a lot on my plate right now. I can't take on anything else. I need to concentrate on what I'm doing now, stop fussing about the future and stop taking on new projects.

I also need to learn how to chillax. Chillaxing is the art of not only relaxing, but chilling -- relaxatio is often forced onto one after a spell of busyness and physical activity, but chilling is an altogether different thing -- it's a mental state where you feel cool and hip and satisfied. Chillaxing is rest combined with self-satisfaction, and I've yet to learn how to do it. But trust me, it doesn't involve marking student assignments. Oy -- but that's a whole other post.

Last year, after my SSHRC proposal didn't get it through the uni AGAIN, I promised myself I wouldn't get all pissy and upset over the process this year. Today, however, the jealousy monster decided it was prime time to make me feel like shit again. I'm feeling pissy about being passed over again.

I know I shouldn't feel pissy. I've done a lot in the past year: written two conference papers and delivered them at two respected conference in my field; worked a few RA/TA jobs; had my poetry published, and invited to read my poetry at a fundraiser; been nominated for a major university research award; and passed all my various candidacy exams. But my past week of dissertation-related uselessness means I'm finding ways to criticize myself, and the fucking SSHRC competition is always there, peeking its stupid little money-giving head at me. Fuckity fuck fuck. I'm afraid the new PhD students will outshine me. Why do I let my insecurities run amok?

I'm trying to clean up the house right now. Hopefully a happy environment and tidy desk space will help me get on the road to work so I can forget about all these self-defeating jealous feelings my brain keeps cranking out.