The good news is that I believe I've figured out the hip thing. A disc is impinging on a nerve. I've been going to a chiropractor slash ART guy -- "active release therapy" -- pushes with his thumb really hard into a muscle while someone moves my limb. Breaks up the muscle facia. Well, it's a theory, and I've been at my wits' end. This is truly dispiriting. The ART hasn't done much -- know a guy who says it cured his running issue, so it was a possibility Different issue, though, I think. Not sure about my back, the thing between the shoulder blades, but at least it's not stopping me anymore. Something new and weird on my other thigh, though, like someone punched me, only no one did. Thought it was just a bjj thing, but it's been two weeks.
You see my dilemma. This is no ordinary situation. I seriously lack energy, and rest is unrefreshing, and I have strange new persistent pains. I'm not a hypochondriac, but one's imagination does finally get to working. But I think the hip is a disc thing, cause and effect, wear and tear from starting running again. So I'll decompress it and see what happens. It's important to feel that there's something one can do.
Rolling with some talented white belts. Man I suck. I need to train regularly or I regress, fall back on instinct. Had a guy in a triangle and just couldn't think it through. World's worst brown belt. Embarrassing. I can fake it with novices, but I don't want to fake it. If I rolled with someone my size and belt, I'd get killed. Train train train, and I just can't, much of the time now.
I've had some time now to get some perspective, re my former boys. Sort of tore open old wounds, finding them, online, the way I did. Well, the whole story is out now. Oh, you missed it? Well, I posted it, the denouement, the Hamlet-like pseudo-climax -- my exciting adventure about Jason's final betrayal and what happened afterwards. So sad, you missing it like that. You should be a more faithful reader of these pages. Now you'll never know. I use my anguish to amuse you, and you repay my vulnerability with indifference.
Obama? Nothing to say. He is my, dare I say it, whipping boy. It's either that, or think about God, and futility, and loneliness. Allow me my indulgences. It means nothing.