If there is one thing that losing mobility is teaching me – even though this is only a partial loss – it’s that every step must be taken with purpose.

Every step has to accomplish something, or it’s not worth the pain.

Without purpose, each step just jars my broken joint, twists my hip as I try to maintain my off-balance gait, and smooshes my calf uncomfortably against the metal supports on each side of my cast. Without purpose, without accomplishment, each step I take now is a step in the wrong direction.

I have to plan my movements now. When I go from one room to another, I must always carry something that belongs in the next room, because I should not make a special trip back to grab it later. I empty the trash and recycling right before I leave the house so I can combine the trip out with one to the bin – not making a separate trip another time just because the garbage has started to smell. I have to think ahead, plot my day around how many steps I want to take.

I’m not couch-bound by any means. I’m getting around on the air cast pretty well now. But I’m still rather slow, I’m still uncomfortable, still a little paranoid about compromising the healing process. My broken talus – the bone at the top of the foot that articulates with the tibia and the fibula to form the ankle joint – is apparently a rather important bone. If I’d broken it all the way through – and fortunately I didn’t, though just barely – I’d be in a hard cast and on crutches for at least 6 weeks.

So today, on my twenty-ninth birthday, I am thinking about purpose. About the steps I take in my life, not just with my feet, and whether they are forward or backward, whether they are unnecessary, dangerous, or worth all the risks no matter what.

I feel like my 2010 New Year’s Resolutions are turning out to be a pretty big fail already. But when you think about it, today is MY New Year, my holiday*. And maybe this is when I should make resolutions, on the day each year when I really inspect myself and my life and my direction. Twenty-eight was a pretty good year. I am optimistic about twenty-nine. And instead of a handful of resolutions carelessly drummed up so I could have yet another bullet-point list on my blog, why not this…

A Birthday Resolution for Twenty-Nine:

I will walk with purpose.

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* Well, mine and a shitload of stoners who will be passing the bowl – I like to think in my honor – at 4:20 on 4/20. Duuuude…

If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll know that I broke my ankle a few weeks ago and I’m rather grumpy about it. It occurred to me the other day that I have not blogged for awhile, which makes absolutely no sense when you figure that I’ve been hanging out on the couch for the last few weeks, and will continue to do so until at least May 3.

But it’s not just my foot that hurts right now.

I’m not sure why, but my heart is just aching lately. I’ve been forgetting things at work, not finishing things on time, feeling generally overwhelmed by things that are not difficult. My job is NOT THAT HARD. And yet I’m struggling. I’m flipping out over Every. Little. Thing. I cried at work the other day because I forgot to do something that ended up being completely inconsequential.

It’s wearing me down.

This seems to have seeped over into the rest of my life and for some reason I find it hard to clean my house. Hard to return phone calls or read emails or even look at the overflowing Google Reader. Hard to even pick up the remote – sometimes I just stare at the ceiling because I don’t even want to bother with the TV.

Now THAT is fucked up, right?

I’m functioning, of course. I AM getting things done. I’m going to work and to school. I am being social and doing things that are fun and enjoying them. But it seems like every day there’s a crash at some point and a tiny part of me dreads it all day, even when I’m doing the things that lift me up a little bit. It’s this undercurrent, this nagging feeling that when I get home, when I’m alone, I’ll just die a little inside.

I hate that E doesn’t understand. He doesn’t really understand depression, much less bipolar disorder and how it fucks with you in up AND down ways all at once. I’ve taken my “as needed” anxiety medicine every day lately because I’m so nervous – about what? – and at the same time I’m so sad. I don’t blame him for not getting it; it’s hard to make anyone understand. But I wish he did. I wish SOMEONE really really did.

Hell. I wish I did.

I don’t want to blame bipolar disorder. I don’t want to blame my broken ankle, even though it’s painful and limiting almost my every move. I don’t want to blame anything. But what explanation is there if not to blame SOMETHING? There’s always a reason, and that reason is usually, in one shape or another, a sort of blame.

So what’s left? Blaming myself for not being stronger? For not knowing better how to handle myself, how to get out of this stupid funk, this miserable slog?

Blame stress, blame finances, blame the government, blame Vladimir Putin and bad parents of Russian adoptees who do more wretched things than I can fathom.

I know, I mean I really DO KNOW that I am not a bad person. I am not incompetent or stupid. Nothing is godawful wrong in my life right now – the people I love are healthy. I have a good job and a home and a lovely boyfriend and great friends.

But I am afraid. Of something.

And I don’t know why, but I am sad, I am anxious, I can’t sleep, I want to cry and I want to scream, and my heart hurts right now.

“Doing more, trying more, and laughing more… should come from your attitude, NOT your birth control!”

Really, Yaz? It’s all about my attitude? I mean, I could try doing a lot more people and laugh more about it if I’m on birth control.

And what does my goddamn attitude have to do with anything? I just want to NOT HAVE A BABY.

Then your commercial proceeds to show me how I will be a happier and more outgoing person if I take this Yaz thing. Exactly what you told me did NOT matter at the beginning of the spot.

Can we all appreciate the stupidity here?

The United States and New Zealand are the only countries in the world that allow Direct-to-Consumer advertising of prescription drugs. We Americans believe there’s a pill for everything. It’s no wonder healthcare costs are out of control in this country. Viva Viagra, indeed.

Birth control, I can see why you need a prescription for that. But am I really going to make my choice of a Very Important medication based on a commercial of yellow-suited synchronized swimmers? Nuva Ring, I am talking to you.

It’s not just the drugs, though.

The Heather Armstrong commercials on HGTV started about a month ago when I was sick with a chest cold, so I saw them over and over. And the more I watched, the more I never wanted to see the very awesome Dooce again.

I hate that HGTV has done this to me. And someone there obviously hates her because that blush? Is not a good look. She’s a pretty lady and the orange does her no favors. And that first set of commercials… “Heather Armstrong is joining HGTV!” and her balancing things on her dog’s nose… were beyond pointless. If you had no previous idea who this woman was, you’d just think “Who’s the skinny broad with the orange cheeks?” and never make an effort to tune in, or even go to the website to find out what it’s really about. Come on, HGTV. You owe Dooce more than that.

Why is there a new mascara every week?

Why do the first two Dell guys in the “Lollipop” commercial look like they were just getting dressed together behind that partition?

When did people start doing pre-release commercials for BOOKS?

Oh, and Jamie Lee Curtis? Enough with your “irregularity” already. It’s not a secret code. We all know that means you’re having trouble with your shit.

What commercial is annoying you?

I don’t usually write (or like to read) the ohaisorryiamtoobusytoblog posts, but I briefly considered writing one yesterday when I fielded a phone call from a friend who was genuinely concerned for my well-being, as I had not been tweeting regularly or blogging at all for the last week. Not kidding.

Well, I’ve felt a little off.

Things have been happening and I’ve even taken photos of a few things, intending to write witty and engaging posts about my recent escapades with paint and power tools. But everything I wrote just looked blah to me. I hovered over”post” at least a dozen times in the last ten days, and I just never made the click.

Sometimes it feels weird trying to pull meaning and insight out of my everyday doings. I try to do this. I often use my blogging to make sense of things, to piece things together so that the world seems more cohesive and explainable. But when there’s nothing dramatic going on, what is there to write? What is there to do but just live and keep on living until there is something finally worth writing?

That looks depressing, and there’s the problem with even just writing this post – I’m NOT depressed. (This time, anyway.) I’m fine. Everything is just coming out all wrong, and I think that because I don’t feel like I have anything that simply MUST be said, I just haven’t said anything much. There’s no sense of urgency, none of that deep-seated need to spill my guts. It comes when things are really great or really awful – you know the moments, where you have to write it or you’ll go crazy, those moments when you don’t even think before you click “post” and you can just breathe a sigh of relief what it’s all OUT.

At times like that I don’t give a shit if it’s written well or not. Blogs are narcissistic and meant to be cathartic.

But when I have time to construct a thoughtful and well-written post and I just CAN’T write it? It frustrates me so much that I don’t even want to sit back down and try again until I feel that must-tell-the-world feeling again.

So today, I’m actually going to click “post” because I really want to know what you fellow bloggers do when you can’t write the way you want.

Are you comfortable posting what might not be your best writing?

It’s nine-thirty in the morning on a Football Sunday.

Crap. Snow is falling and the sidewalk looks slick, so we struggle into long underwear and hiking boots. It’s finally time to help my boyfriend’s brother move his stuff out of my boyfriend’s house and into his new place. We are not happy to be pressed into service on a slushy, cold, Football Sunday, but at least he’s leaving. We had told him in advance that we’d help until the noon kickoff.

By the time we get to E’s place, Brother has started piling random crap in the back of the U-Haul in no practical fashion. There is slush all over E’s floors, clothes on hangers are strewn around the living room, half-packed boxes lay open in the dining room, and Brother is flinging things haphazardly into a laundry basket.

“You said you were packed,” I say accusingly. “You didn’t use any of the good boxes I brought you.”

“I am packed. And I had these boxes,” he said, gesturing to a pile. “Those can go, by the way.”

I already want to curse him because seriously? He’s had months to pack. He’s had the key to his new place for over a week and hasn’t moved a damn thing. He waits for a snowy weekend when he knows everyone would rather be at the bar for the games. He ASKED for good boxes and I brought him some, the nice ones with handles and lids.

And now I am carrying a Crock-Pot box held together with duct tape, with a block of knives poking dangerously out the top.

I lug it out to the truck and hop into the back, pushing things around to make space for the couch, the chairs, the big television, and all the other stuff he’s been storing in the basement since he got kicked out of his old place and had to move in with E five months ago. It will be so good to have him gone, I tell myself as I shuffle and stack, just deal with this for one more day, one more day…

“Everything’s out of the upstairs,” Brother says when the truck is about three-quarters full. “Let’s go.”

“You still have a bunch of boxes in your room,” E points out.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t decided about those. I might give that stuff to the Salvation Army, I dunno. But why move them twice?”

“Because they are taking up space in MY HOUSE,” E says flatly.

“Whatever.”

“We’re not making a trip till this truck is full,” I announce, so we troop down to the basement. I start grabbing things and Brother stops me on every other item – not sure about this, might give that away. It’s classic Brother, never making decisions, waiting till the last minute for everything and still blithering, expecting everyone to sympathize with poor him.* Five months of tension finally snap, and out comes The Crazy.

“What do you mean you haven’t DECIDED?”

“I just need to think for a day or two if I should keep that – ”

“You have had MANY days. You had Saturday. And Friday. And all last week while you had your new place. And all the last five months while you kept talking about moving out, to pack properly and make these decisions. Do not call people to get up early on a Sunday and help you when you haven’t done your part! You are wasting our time, so get your shit together!”

I storm off with a box, not caring if it was meant to go or not. It was going.

I felt bad for a little bit. But good GOD, he was on my last nerve, after everything he’s done to E, his own little brother who took him in, and after everything he’s done to take advantage of both of us – up to and including opening MY Christmas presents and eating MY food while he gambled away his paychecks and borrowed money because he was broke  – E and I used to practically live at his place, and lately we haven’t even slept there because Brother has made it so miserable. It was that bad.

We finish loading the truck and drive to the new place. I carry an armload of his on-hanger shirts upstairs and lay them on his bed.

“You can hang those up,” he calls

“No, I’m making that your ‘deal with it’ pile,” I say, stomping out to the truck to get more. I could have brought them all in one load if they’d been in a box.

E and I schlepped back and forth angrily for another hour. We were late for kickoff, we were wet and hungry (who asks for moving help and doesn’t have pizza or beer?!), and when we left, Brother asked when we’d be back.

I told E later that I felt a bit bad for yelling. “Don’t,” he laughed. “He deserved it, and it was pretty funny. He kept looking at me like I could somehow shut you up, and I just smiled and said ’she’s right, dude.’”

I think I secretly hoped that he would change, that maybe if he heard from someone other than his dad or his little brother – who has fought with him all his life and told him this a thousand times – that he’s a rude and irresponsible bum, maybe it would make something click. You know, confirmation from a third party. But I realize now that I may as well have been yelling in Welsh, for all it was worth. E explained to me that his brother is like a dog: he hears loud noises and sees angry looks from humans, but he cannot associate them with his actions.

“How was moving?” E’s best friend asks when we get to the bar. Said friend is familiar with the horrible living situation, of course.

E tells my story.

And I get a slow clap.

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* There were actually several other instances where he treated E and me like total crap that day, but they make the story too long. Trust me. He deserved this.