Is routine a good thing?

I have a routine of teaching and grading assignments, but I also walk my dog, Stella, every day at the River Park in Chattanooga. The River Park follows the edge of the Tennessee River for eight miles. Every day around noon, I ask Stella if she wants to go for a walk, and she emphatically answers, Yes. We walk for about a mile and a half, an out-and-back along the paved trail. We're both a bit old and walk slowly, especially in the heat. I see new faces each day, but I also see regulars, and we nod or wave. My biggest fear is that Stella will poop on the trail, so I first walk her in a large field where she dutifully evacuates her bowels. To me, it's astounding that I do the same things on a daily basis and that I enjoy them.

My life growing up was chaotic, my father being in the Army. We moved on average every six months or so until I was in the ninth grade. It always happened that we moved over the holiday break in December, and I had to change schools, which I came to loathe. Always being the new kid sucked. Around fifth grade, I gave up trying to make friends and withdrew into my own private hell, where nothing seemed to matter. But after I left home at the age of seventeen, I still found myself moving frequently, unable to shake the habit, being restless. So, now it shocks me that I have lived in the same city for thirteen years and have had the same employer for that time. I wonder that I'm dedicated to walking Stella daily, and sometimes have to convince myself that it's normal to have a routine, feeling that I am somehow weak for following a routine.

The single most important factor in my adapting to a routine is taking the medications for my "brain fever." Since moving to Chattanooga, I have faithfully taken my pills, something I failed to do previously. The pills keep the anxiety down, lift the depression, and prevent the racing thoughts, most importantly the racing thoughts of death. With the meds, I have become stable and able to craft a routine that I enjoy. I think about it often and am still amazed.

Life is not perfect, of course. The drugs help a lot, but I still harbor deep-seated fears and doubts about my deserving to have a job or my deserving to have two gorgeous daughters. There is always a slight flare of depression that hangs around the edges, and I still suffer from social anxiety and have a glaze of paranoia that I am able to discern and eventually dispel. But I am living the best life I have ever had. I can't wait to walk Stella tomorrow. Right now it's one in the morning, and I can't sleep. Insomnia—that's for another post.