Why did I start this blog, anyway?

Why did I start this blog, really? Well, I have ADHD. I mean, I have a lot of things--bipolar I, PTSD, ADHD, a cornucopia of physical health issues that compound my mental health issues, and the world is on fire and... but basically, I have ADHD. And with this ADHD, I like to start things. I start so many things. And I never see them through.

Well, this is about change. This is about a new me. A mature me. A me that finishes things. A me that sees things through.

Just kidding, there's no growth here, I just like to start things, and eventually, I'll miss a day, and then have a complete breakdown because my streak of 20 or 7 or 2 days is broken, and then I'll never pick it up again. So this may be the last time you read my work.

But hopefully it isn't the last time.

Hopefully I keep this going. And if I fall off the horse, dammit, I should hop right back on--or, if I'm too injured to hop right back on, hop on when the time is ready and I'm healed.

Of course, I've never ridden a horse, and I imagine it would hurt an awful lot to fall off... and I'd probably be wary of getting right back onto it, even after the healing happened.

Which brings up a memory of my childhood. I was three years old, and my mom was working on some project with someone who lived in Los Altos Hills. While my mom was talking with the woman that lived there, the woman's husband led me out to the ranch or farm or whatever it was, and showed me this goat. "Pet the goat," he said.

So I reach out my hand to pat the goat, and the goat immediately butted me and knocked me off my feet and into the fence.

The guy picked me up and said, "Pet the goat!"

So I reached out again, and damned if the goat didn't butt me right back into the fence again.

By this point, I was crying and the guy said, "Get up! Pet the goat!" And I did and the goat butted me clean over the fence.

By this point, my mom was running outside screaming and got to me before I could get up again. She took me straight to the hospital. Of course, then CPS questioned her about everything. I don't remember much more, just a lot of different people asking me the same questions over and over and me--in a lot of pain, repeatedly recounting how this stupid goat had hit me with its head, over and over.

Anyway, the point of this is that I've always been kind of leery of getting back up.

But then again, that's pretty much what life is. Just getting your ass kicked and getting back up and getting your ass kicked again.

At this point in my life, I'm an expert in getting my ass kicked, and as much as I don't trust getting back up, I still do it, time and time again.

It beats the alternative.