The week was very intense. I wish to write also very productive, but I know I can better.
Maybe was and I am too demanding for myself...
 Nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps, but there was more reflection than usual, along with additional changes aimed at further improving my quality of life—and a surprisingly high number of "no" answers. I truly hope I’ve finally learned how to say that. My muscles have either stopped liking me, or they’re just complaining a bit at the start;p
 I’ve also rediscovered that BREATH is the most important thing at any given moment in our lives. I feel as though I’m playing poker—and if I’m going to play, I’m going all in. No, I don't remember, how to play this.

After deleting my online accounts, I considered taking down this site as well.
 I spent a great deal of time writing in a notebook this week—a welcome relief for my poor eyes—but in the end, I decided against deleting the site. Even when I felt truly exhausted shortly after sunset (our bodies are so divinely designed!), that notebook would often bring a quiet smile to my face; at times it would go flying, landing somewhere near the kitchen island, while at other moments, it absorbed my tears. I realized that if things continue this way, I’ll end up with a whole stack of these notebooks. It will likely be easier to type on the computer more often than to tap out emotions in a detached, mechanical way. So, I haven’t deleted the site; it will serve as a record of my transformation—if only for my own sake.
I didn’t buy this notebook. I was given it. If it hadn’t had a dedication inside, it probably would have ended up as just another rough-draft pad—but it did.
"For the woman who always shares her heart. Hope this helps you keep your best feelings close and remember them fondly."
I just got a shiver down my spine... Should I be expecting Alzheimer’s?! Last week, Taylor and I were talking about how he’s afraid of developing the disease, since his grandmother had it... He asked me if I would want any help if it ever happened to me. I said no—and I meant it. A person can live with any illness as long as they remain self-sufficient. Once they aren’t, their dignity should be respected by those closest to them, and that is when they should offer help. It’s a terrifying thought—imagining that I could lose my memory, especially since mine is so good—but then again, who knows what fate has in store?
Another thing this brings to mind is an email I received from "the Jerk" regarding my writing. I don’t need to quote it, but the gist was something like: "Write what your heart dictates."
Looking back at my early twenties, even though I always kept the well-being of those around me in mind, I made all my decisions based on pure reason—"because that’s what’s expected" or "what’s proper." How foolish I was! Only now, having truly dared to follow my heart, can I see how misguided those earlier decisions were—how contrary to my own personality, and how much they drained the life out of my existence. Today, when I am guided solely by my heart—and only then—I have no doubts :). Despite the fact that I live practically on my own, I remain true to myself, and that brings me a great deal of satisfaction. There is a sense of dignity—which I mentioned a little earlier—and the freedom to make choices where the only points of reference are ME and my heart. So little, yet so much!!!!!!!!!
As for these beautifully scented pages in a thick cover—I received them from Bryan. I mention him because, although I allowed myself to be led astray by him, I am still very grateful to him. If my writing was the price I paid for feeling humiliated, then it was worth it—thank you, my friend; though, please, do not call yourself my friend ever again.
There’s something that triggers a self-destructive mode in me. We call it—despite its complexity—stress. 
Until recently, I used to wake up in the morning and ask myself how I felt about the day ahead—a question directed, quite literally, at my gut. If things didn’t feel quite right, I’d often change my plans for the day; I suppose you could call it a quiet way of escaping reality. These days, I get up because I know that if I don’t feed the cats and make some coffee right away, I’ll be late for my workout—and without that workout, I fall into a depression. Without coffee, I can still train, but not the way I like—pushed to the very last drop of sweat—so I simply don’t have time to waste on pointless questions. It’s all so simple, really! On Thursday, my gut didn’t signal anything that might disrupt my elevated—and, naturally, quite good—mood. I was even a little disappointed that I hadn’t brought a book along when I headed to the studio; there was a 45-minute gap before the next class—plenty of time to fill—so I just went back home. Something prompted me to check the mailbox. I can laugh about it now, but it actually cost me quite a bit… Inside was a letter from the power company. The electricity and gas accounts are still in my father’s name—I’d assumed you needed some sort of "magic number" to earn a privilege like that!I open it, and there’s a notification that a payment has been refunded, along with a request to get in touch with them. And just like that, my day is ruined. Fucking ADHD. A thousand scenarios racing through my head—why did they issue a refund? Will the gas company call next? Are they going to demand the rent money back? Is my entire sense of harmony about to fall apart?
I rarely listen to metal. At one point in my life, I realized that different sounds have different frequencies, which means they have a significant impact on us. These vocalists are clearly struggling with something and screaming about it, so I try not to tap into their pain unless I really need to. That day, I did need to—I thought it might stir up a bit of controlled aggression, helping me make the necessary calls quickly and put the whole thing behind me. It didn’t work. I turned it off. Whenever these "dark thoughts" creep in, I immediately assume the worst (so "wise," yet so foolish!), and the stress becomes so overwhelming that I just want to evacuate—to change absolutely everything, anything to forget.
The pattern is always the same. First, I torment myself, desperately trying to solve an unsolvable situation in my head. Then, I start searching online for the most remote, wild places to live—only to suddenly remember that my daughter and four cats are here, so I’m not going anywhere. That’s when the regret sets in, along with the realization that I’m not nearly as independent as I thought—in other words, a sense of utter helplessness. When stress takes control of me, I start to get flustered, pacing back and forth while forgetting why I even moved in the first place. My body grows weak—even though I could have just meditated or focused on my breathing. I know I significantly reduced my medication dosage today, but I also know that had no impact on my stress levels. The thing about this stress is that it’s constant. I realize that’s true for everyone’s life, but most people have someone to lean on—someone who can make a phone call for them, allowing them to stop thinking for a while. I’ve always had to rely solely on myself, which hasn’t been easy; I suppose I could classify this as a defense mechanism.
Suddenly, it hit me: I am alone, and neither turning my apartment into a camper nor moving to a different city will change that. You can’t cheat life. I remember waiting for the closing on my apartment, living out of my Toyota for about a month. Morning routines at McDonald’s, instant coffee made with cold water, ten-hour shifts at work, followed by a workout just so I could use the gym’s shower. All my belongings were in a Public Storage unit. I survived, and it wasn’t all that bad—I even grew to appreciate my "dead squirrel" (that’s what my daughter calls my car :)). I also remember the first time I locked up my storage unit—I felt a sense of freedom. It’s no wonder people often choose to get rid of everything. It’s almost funny that a single envelope could lead me to such thoughts. I threw away the cigarettes I’d kept hidden for moments when dark thoughts might creep in—and I also got a manicure, so I won’t end up tearing the skin around my nails...
So, I was left with a bit of El Ranchero—which I’d ​​crumbled up a few days ago, out of frustration with its "crust." I ate it, my blood sugar spiked, and I figured I might as well go to bed. I felt disappointed in myself—I had been writing something about transformation, after all... I couldn’t fall asleep, so I got up half an hour later and decided to face the situation head-on—after all, there’s no "phone a friend" option here. I took a shower—which always relaxes me—and a little while later, after making a few calls, I realized there was nothing to worry about.

Still, the idea of ​​living out in the middle of nowhere has really grown on me; I keep refining and tweaking the plan every day. Maybe I could host yoga sessions with cats—someone’s already doing it with goats (a brilliant idea, honestly!). But first, I need to get through all the books piling up on my coffee table, learn anatomy in both English and Sanskrit, become proficient in Ashtanga—and, above all, in the art of breathing. While the *Upanishads* have reassured me that I’m not crazy, I’ve also just realized why one of these books is titled *The Path to Inner Transformation*.

It’s 10 o’clock, and Bella has sprawled out comfortably across my hips in front of the computer—the clever little thing is purring away! :P Time to head to bed.

Namaste.