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Starting with the good news, it turns out that I do not have cancer on the chronic wound. Indeed, the wound itself is dissipating with the application of antibiotics, ointments, and now steroids. Apparently, my immune system is hyper-responsive to any infections in my lower legs and adopts a 'scorched earth policy which can make matters worse. At least I know that it works, I suppose. In the next several days I should get my blood tests back for liver enzymes, low-density lipoproteins, blood-sugar levels, and the like. I am predicting that these will fall into the normal-good range given my change in diet and exercise over the last eighteen months. With further good news, I have had my second shot of AstraZeneca, with no side effects. Obviously, I think that the Pfizer vaccine is superior, but this is "good enough" in the face of the pandemic, and I would not hesitate for a moment to recommend that people get whatever vaccine is available. Not just for your own sake, but especially for the sake of others. If you're near Melbourne city, I also recommend taking the opportunity to take the shot at the Royal Exhibition Building, which has UNESCO World Heritage status for good reasons.
Of course, physical health is not the only consideration. I was particularly taken by recent news that during the height of Victoria's coronavirus restrictions, almost one-in-ten seriously considered suicide and with a third reporting symptoms of anxiety or depression. I will quite openly admit that was among those one-in-ten, and with far more seriousness than my usual existential malaise. Individual issues appear in aggregate as collective trauma, whether it is triggered by a loss of income, employment, relationship issues, household tensions, and the general weariness of the pandemic's march, etc. It also has been pointed out that 2021 might be worse; "A lot of people paced themselves for 2020, and maybe not for 2021" as we downsize our desires to flourish to mere survival mode, which fits my own concerns at the beginning of the year that this one was going to be worse. How much worse, generally and more in my personal life, I seriously under-estimated. It's not as if I don't have ambit plans for the future on paper, some quite grand, and I'm doing my best to carry them out, but when I try to visualise myself in five years' time, I'm simply no longer getting any pictures. It is like my sense of hope has been ripped out of me.
As gentle readers will know much of this has to do with misfortunes of the heart. My emotional commitments were deep and true, made for an exciting and promising future, and I believed, so sincerely, that they were reciprocated. There were grounded reasons that the experiences were often expressed to a wider audience in metaphor and subtlety. But that must change for the sake of autobiographical honesty. It is important for one to be true to their history in order to learn from it. Thus, over the next several weeks, I plan to make a number of small changes to my entries whether in text (LJ/DW) or image (FB) to elucidate this reality. I approach this task with the view of a restorer of the past, rather than an editor for contemporary standards. I do not wish to change, alter, or delete any of the facts based on current feelings. Such actions is rather Stalinist, and I could not tolerate my soul to be stained with such deception to itself.
Of course, physical health is not the only consideration. I was particularly taken by recent news that during the height of Victoria's coronavirus restrictions, almost one-in-ten seriously considered suicide and with a third reporting symptoms of anxiety or depression. I will quite openly admit that was among those one-in-ten, and with far more seriousness than my usual existential malaise. Individual issues appear in aggregate as collective trauma, whether it is triggered by a loss of income, employment, relationship issues, household tensions, and the general weariness of the pandemic's march, etc. It also has been pointed out that 2021 might be worse; "A lot of people paced themselves for 2020, and maybe not for 2021" as we downsize our desires to flourish to mere survival mode, which fits my own concerns at the beginning of the year that this one was going to be worse. How much worse, generally and more in my personal life, I seriously under-estimated. It's not as if I don't have ambit plans for the future on paper, some quite grand, and I'm doing my best to carry them out, but when I try to visualise myself in five years' time, I'm simply no longer getting any pictures. It is like my sense of hope has been ripped out of me.
As gentle readers will know much of this has to do with misfortunes of the heart. My emotional commitments were deep and true, made for an exciting and promising future, and I believed, so sincerely, that they were reciprocated. There were grounded reasons that the experiences were often expressed to a wider audience in metaphor and subtlety. But that must change for the sake of autobiographical honesty. It is important for one to be true to their history in order to learn from it. Thus, over the next several weeks, I plan to make a number of small changes to my entries whether in text (LJ/DW) or image (FB) to elucidate this reality. I approach this task with the view of a restorer of the past, rather than an editor for contemporary standards. I do not wish to change, alter, or delete any of the facts based on current feelings. Such actions is rather Stalinist, and I could not tolerate my soul to be stained with such deception to itself.
