Are You Ready for Some Football?

I'm trying to continue to sit with my particular suffering, realizing that I have it great compared to most people. But mental illness is real, and it does sap your will to live and/or do much of anything. People who don't have mental illness don't know this. They think you just need to buck up or, as I mentioned yesterday, "hang in there". The sentiment as it's intended is fine: it means, please don't kill yourself. Which means the person who says it cares about you. And I'm feeling the love of the people around me who want me to stay alive, and that helps.

It really does.

So does exercising to the point of near exhaustion. As boring as the treadmill and exercise bike are, if I spend an hour or two on them every day I am more inclined to see the glass as half full, or at least not shattered on the ground.

So I plod along, moving fast but going nowhere. A little too close to home, that analogy.

In completely unrelated news, my son and his father are going to their first ever NFL football game tonight. It being colder than a witch's tit out there, they were bundled up like little kids in snowsuits. Copious layers of clothing and barely a drop of flesh to be seen besides their eyes. They were very excited about this big event. Talk about connectedness--a stadium full of screaming supporters joined as one.

My daughter and I are going to have a slumber party in her queen size bed. She didn't want to go to the game, and neither did I. It's a rite of passage for my son and his dad, but it isn't meaningful to she and I. Reading together in bed, that's meaningful for us. She is among the many who give me love when I'm feeling the worst. She's good medicine.

The take home today? The same as many other days: only connect. Thank you, E.M. Forster, for telling it like it should be. And thanks to The Buddha and the NFL, for reminding us that we are all connected to each other.