So, a 30 minutes writing prompt. Set the timer, sit down and write an entry as far as that 30 minutes takes me. It's not like I'm insanely busy anymore, I just find myself uninterested in writing about my life on a daily basis. That and at a loss for what I have to say or honestly most of the time, how to start.

The main thing I've been mulling over this past week has been my trip in Toronto last Thursday. I went in for my physical with the best damn doctor in the world, Dr. McKeown. I ended up with her as my GP purely by fluke. I was living at the Y in hoity-toity Rosedale area and under a lot of stress in my 'relationship' (read: trainwreck) with Fors. One morning I sat up, lit my morning cigarette, realized I was about to pass out, set my smoke down and promptly blacked out. There's a bit in there about my bladder opening up that's not too pleasant to remember, as well.

Anyway, my roommate realized that something was really wrong when she came back into the room and I was slumped against the wall staring "like you couldn't see anything". I came to and we ended up at the nearest walk-in clinic. That was the first time I met my doctor, and she was wonderful. This wee English woman (I assume she's English, they're the only people that call me Linder) who took control and sent me down to St. Michael's for testing. (The worry was seizures, but after over 6 months of intensive testing and two more blackouts we decided it was most likely stress induced and more testing wouldn't do any good)

She's been my doctor ever since. The story I tell as my example of why I think she's wonderful is the smoking one. I was a smoker for 5 years, and she hated to see a young woman smoking. So we set an appointment to discuss it. She told me her concerns, some statistics and consequences, then asked and honestly wanted to know *my* reasons for smoking. She never once talked down to me. She understood that I knew the risks I was taking with my life and health but I had reasons and she wanted to know exactly what they were. I told her, and I said I wasn't ready to quit yet. She finished with a simple "When you are ready, tell me and we'll make it as easy as we can for you." My smoking was never an issue again beyond a quick check-in at various appointments if I was ready or not.

I think that lack of judgement and her willingness to admit that I knew myself best is part of why I managed to quit and stay quit so far this year.

Anyway, Toronto trips are hard. I only lived there for a year and a half but it feels almost as much like home as KW does. How far I have to walk up at the various subway stops to be lined up for the Bloor-Yonge transfer isn't even a conscious thought. Knowing that just over there, a little south of St. Clair, is the park that has the water 'puddles' where I would crash my poor kite. There are all these different neighbourhoods I lived in, little villages that make up the big scary city. I think the Beach proper was the most fun. The upper beach was the most ordinary and Woodlawn the most "big city".

I used to go down Yonge a block every day to sit and write for a couple hours at a time. I have journals and books of letters, hundreds of pages long where I explored myself, my anger, my hurt, and my betrayals. Truth. I miss that the most, I think, moving back here to quiet Waterloo. I miss sitting in a coffee shop, smoking, sipping coffee and writing until my hand cramped into a claw. Sometimes I'd sit and chat with friends long gone now, but never forgotten. I don't want that life back anymore. I did last summer. I missed the people that made Toronto a place I'm so thankful to have lived, and also a place I never want to return to again.

Now my life is boring and quiet and hard to write about. Certainly not enough to keep my hands busy for weeks, months writing. But I'm grateful for that. I broke my tooth on Wednesday and not 20 minutes ago the freezing finally faded away from the fix by my dentist this morning. That's boring, but there's also something wonderful in the ability to get my teeth done. (Money, of course)

I start Physio next week. Sarabeth goes back to school, and I hop on a bus with a pair of shorts and a T-shirt to be poked and prodded and taught how to make my back work again. My wonderful Doctor gave me some pain meds called Vioxx, to keep me from taking endless amounts of Advil in a futile attempt to be pain free. The Vioxx has been amazing. I get very tired now though in the afternoons and nap. I don't know if it's a side effect of the medication or just my body being thrilled to get unbroken sleep.

I think that's the worst part of the pain, really. That I wasn't sleeping. Every time I would roll over the pain would wake me up. And let me tell you, I *move* in my sleep. I worry a lot that if I talk about pain that the judgement on me is that I'm whining or sympathy seeking. I think everyone fears this when they are in pain. Why do we do this to ourselves? Or rather, each other.

It's almost September. We're almost done a 5-week pay period, thank god. Being without money is scary. And of course, what do I do when I'm scared about money? I spend it. Figure that one out. I find that a lot of people that grew up poor go that way or the other extreme. Me, I'm in the "spend it if you got it so you have something to show for it when it's gone" camp. I've had friends in the "buy nothing, live as if you have nothing so it's never gone" camp.

And there's the 30 minute buzzer. The End. (for today)