Life is a Therapist
I keep a weekly chart in my Bullet Journal. And in the section for “Habits” I track my progress. For a couple of months I’ve had one of the boxes labeled “Write”. “A few sentences”, that’s all the comfort-center of my brain asks from me. It encourages, “Just a bit,” With a small pat on my back. With frustration I look at the boxes, week after week, reminded. Reminded I’m limited, reminded I want, want, want more out of myself. I’ve injured my arm (from overuse). I have to restrict how I use the arm then gauge my progress and adjust, for now, with the help of an occupational therapist. When I write, click, press and slide on my computer to post for my blog, it takes hours of time. Write - revisit - revise - rethink ——-what and how I want to word something. Sometimes it’s trash and I start over. Three days ago I decided to write before the sun was up. I sat upright, shoulders back and relaxed my arms. “Just get the ideas in print”, I encourage myself. A small amount a day. Just to be