I was actively seeking to make a change in my life. While things were very exciting in one aspect (I was writing for top periodicals in the USA and England), I barely got out of my apartment, and as a result, I wasn’t having any kick-back fun.

For weeks, I’d been jonesing to play my djembe on the beach. Though the Mediterranean Sea was only a 10 minute walk away, I couldn’t swing it on hoof. Ankle and knee pain made it nearly impossible for me to walk more than a couple of blocks (thus the not-getting-out-of-the- apartment thing).

I felt fine biking, but my djembe was large and heavy — not something I could just toss on the back of my bike…Or could I?

One day, I decided to be adventurous. I wrapped bungee cords around the djembe, as it sat precariously perched on the back rack of my bicycle. I would bike slowly, I made a deal with myself, and if the endeavor proved too tough to handle, I would lock up my bike, take a taxi home with the djembe, then take a taxi back to pick up my bike.

A bit extravagant for a potentially two-minute outing, it may seem, but when you’ve got all kinds of limitations caving in on your life, hell, you gotta do what you gotta do!

So off I went at 1 km/hour, the djembe bumping clumsily from side to side. I made it all the way to the beach!

Excited, I strapped the drum onto my back and walked slowly to the water’s edge. I had just sat down and begun playing a steady rhythm, when a young woman with wild, curly hair came running over and began dancing, clapping, and singing.

Of course, we were instant friends.

Just a few months later, this woman — whom I would not have met, had I not taken the risk necessary to make a change in my life — in fact changed my life forever.

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I’ve got what you might call time-management problems — more inherited than inherent, the by-product of chronic pain and disability.

In other words, it’s not my fault. I just have So. Much. Shit. To Do. Not only that, but everything takes, like, 57 million times as long as it used to.

For starters, both my wrists were injured this past summer. (Oh yeah, and I’m a writer. You do the math.)

Fortunately, we live in a hi-tech era, with the blessing of voice-activated software. Speaking of which, whose bright idea was it to release a Mac-compatible version of Dragon only after I spent six months banging my head against a PC?

Unfortunately, even the best voice-activated software translates “hi Kate” into “he’s irate,” “please send” into “police band,” and “I hate this” into “a huge kiss.” You can imagine how much fun I have dictating.

Whereas I type 100 wpm by hand, I “type” at a snail’s pace by voice, having to stop and correct between one and glee three words in Every. Single. Flocking. Fucking. Sentence. Ark. Aargh!!!!!

Yesterday morning, I decided to dictate my latest goals and objectives. You know, so I’d stop scribbling life’s ambitions on the back of jelly-stained envelopes strewn about the house.

A simple enough task, right?

Damn thing took me well over an hour. Not the act of composing it, mind you, but the mere act of “typing.”

That in turn gave me a late start getting to hand therapy, which was a 4-hour round-trip. (Um, excuse me, but why is the car behind me in a traffic jam always driven by someone determined to initiate anal intercourse?).

By the time I got home, I couldn’t afford to go to the gym. I had to get some work done! — namely, posting last night’s blog, which took eight hours.

I rilly rilly want to commit to daily exercise (got to the gym three times this week, you’d be so proud of me), but chronic pain creates a chain reaction of obstacles in my life; and overcoming them requires that I do a whole laundry list of things which directly compete for my time.

Healing the body through natural means, while surviving the day-to-day, seems like holding several full-time jobs.

Do you feel the same? Do you have these kind of time management problems? If so, I’d love to know about your experience and hear any tips you can share.

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As with other disabilities, chronic pain creates a chain reaction of struggles in one’s life — not the least of which is dating. For me, the dating struggle has manifested in a number of ways:

Sometimes getting out of bed is a Herculean task, and the major events of my day consist of taking a hot bath, then lying sprawled on a post-apocalyptic size ice pack. (It’s fun. You should try it.)

In this case, the impact on my ability to date is obvious: Unless a gaggle of metrosexual hotties not only line up on my doorstep but also magically whip out a key to my apartment, I’m not playing.

The rest of the time, pain sucks my energy non-stop — making it enough of a challenge to crawl over to the espresso machine in my kitchen, never mind accomplish my objectives each day.

As is the case with every other young, single, professional goddess-type, my to do list include theses basics :

• tidy the apartment (Why is it always messy, when I just freakin’ cleaned it?)
• organize paperwork
• respond to snail mail & e-mail (Viagra Corporation: Back. Off.)
• return phone calls
• pay bills
• buy groceries (Why, oh why, do I live on the top floor?)
• do banking
• clean laundry (Maybe the metrosexual hotties can help with this one?)

In addition, in order to stave off my pain through natural means, I’ve got a collection of regular must-dos that are merely occasional or optional for the able-bodied among us:

• meditate
• dance
• swallow lots o’nasty crap (a.k.a. supplements)
• do Feldenkrais routine
• practice visualization
• prepare three organic, nutritious, anti-inflammatory meals
• do physical therapy routine
• exercise
• go to a never-ending stream of healthcare appointments

Side-by-side with taking care of myself through these various means, I also run multiple businesses, spend time with friends and family, actively work on self-improvement, and do what I can to nurture my musical path.

Forget the man. Where’s the extra 48 hours I need each day?

Initially, when I took a stab at resuscitating my romantic life, I was sure that the almighty Internet would deliver the solution.

While Internet dating sites are highly convenient for pain-drained, busy individuals, I ultimately came to see them as a set-up for failure. I mean, how unnatural is it to express the innermost core of your being to someone who has never stood within a 100-foot radius of you?

I know, I know, a bazillion of your friends have gotten married through Internet dating, which is exactly why I tried it (your fault), but still: In my opinion, that relationship approach is too top-heavy.

Then there’s the unpleasant aspect of screening through random weirdos — going out to coffee with those who seem fabulous on the computer screen but turn out to, shall we say, not quite pass muster in real life.

After a string of Internet disappointments and resulting frustration about wasting my time, I concluded that the best way to meet men was to be out there in the real world, doing my “thing.”

So I hauled my weary, chronic pain ass to band performances. Literary events. Community forums. Vegetarian dinners. Prayer services at synagogues — of every denomination. Hell, I even went to a Buddhist temple. (Come to think of it, there were some cute guys there. Maybe I should go back.)

The “problem” is, I love what I do so very much, that in most cases — given my time and energy constraints — I prefer to be sitting at my ergonomic desk in my cozy home office, sporting my plaid flannel jammies and big fuzzy slippers, maniacally rubbing my hands together while crafting my latest plot to take over the world.

In other words, I’ve got shit to do. Despite my disability, I am living my dreams — which leaves me with a very low tolerance for anything less than fantastic.

I don’t have the energy, time, or interest to deal with the hit & miss of random encounters or even the hassle of trolling through the Internet and local papers, looking for something fun to do.

And that’s when it hit me: Just as I’ve hired a program coordinator and administrator for my business, so must I hire a social manager for my personal life — someone who will do all the screening for me. Find events that meet my interests. Find people who meet my standards. Then call me up and tell me where to go, what to wear, and when to arrive.

So last week I signed up for a dating service called Table for Six. I like it because they organize dinners of three women and three men — which I anticipate will create a laid-back environment, where I can organically make new friends without feeling the pressure to make a romantic connection.

I also like it that they organize group events out — dancing, going to the theater, taking hikes, and other activities of interest to me.

The downside is the cost of membership and events. For me they are pricey, given that chronic pain and disability have left me financially drained. Ironic, isn’t it? The very thing that makes disabled people need a dating service like this is also what makes the service potentially inaccessible to us.

Regardless, I decided that my romantic life is worth the investment, so I took out a loan to cover the costs, and I’m going for it. This Thursday is my first dinner. I’ll keep you posted.

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It had been a gnarly week full of dysfunctional family melodrama, and I was weary from battle. So when a friend invited me to her beachside town, I jumped at the opportunity to get some R&R.

Little did I know that beyond the sun & fun I was anticipating, there would be an added bonus upon my arrival: home-made chocolate nut clusters, a large plastic bag of them to be exact, at my beck-and-call. Need I say more?

I fantasized about them at the beach, dreamt about them during my sleep, and reached for them at frequent intervals in-between.

Compulsive eating goes hand-in-hand with chronic pain: It numbs the pain itself, softens the depression stemming from that pain, and provides low-impact entertainment when it’s hard to get around. That’s why, following a hit-and-run car crash in 1997, I’d put on 50 pounds.

Truth be told, I’d struggled with food my whole life — having done the gamut of eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia, exercise bulimia, compulsive overeating) and having tried numerous solutions (nutrition consultation, food elimination, dieting, and calorie-counting).

I knew the core problem lay not in my food behavior per se, but rather in my emotional relationship to food. I’d considered joining a spiritual program for overcoming food addictions — but just thinking about people sitting around and talking about food made me want to run home and inhale my refrigerator.

For some reason, however, my blatant inability to control myself at my friend’s house sent me flying into the arms of the program.

The first week was the hardest. I committed to eating healthy portions of food and not eating between meals. That’s when I became aware that I had a habit of mindlessly reaching for food. All. Day. Long.

While mentally composing the next paragraph for an article, I’d suddenly find myself standing in front of an open refrigerator, my hand reaching for a piece of cheese. While talking with a friend on the phone, I’d notice that my head was positioned in front of the lower cabinet, looking for a frying pan. Heading for the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed, I’d become aware that I was actually in the kitchen, cruising for a yummy snack.

Each time, I was shocked to catch myself in action — as if I suddenly woke up and noticed I’d been sleep-walking. Oy, it dawned on me, I have a problem.

I began going to meetings regularly and calling people in the program instead of reaching for food. It was exhausting: Rather than shoving something in my mouth and getting on with the day, I had to actually stop and feel — the pain, the anger, the desperation, all of it.

I’ve lost 12 pounds since starting program this past summer. More importantly, however, I’ve joined a community of people with the courage to heal; I’ve embraced my feelings on a whole new level; and I’ve found new outlets for my frustration — like composing a song on piano, writing a letter to God, or taking a meditation break.

It’s still not easy, but the self-discovery is worth it.

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I was driving to my bodywork appointment, listening to music on the local alternative rock station, when the DJ announced that celebrity actor Heath Ledger, 28, had died from an apparent suicide.

I had never heard of the actor, but I had tears in my eyes — not just from general empathy, but also from knowing first-hand what it’s like to feel you have run out of options, and therefore, out of hope and reason to live.

It was only about three years ago that chronic pain caused me to wake up regularly with the feeling that I wanted to end it all. As far as I knew, I had tried everything to heal my pain:

• acupressure
• acupuncture
• chiropractic
• cranio-sacral therapy
• exercise
• Feldenkrais
• Integrated Manual Therapy
• massage
• pain meds
• physical therapy
• qi gong
• weight-lifting
• yoga

While some methodologies worked better than others, offering temporary pain relief, the relief was just that: temporary.

I already had seen a litany of general practitioners, orthopedists, physical therapists, and other specialists — including a neurologist, a physiatrist, and even, upon desperation, a psychic healer.

At best, the practitioners gave me an accurate diagnosis but no effective solution for chronic pain relief. At worst, they misdiagnosed me, misguided me, insulted me, and/or physically injured me.

I was emotionally exhausted and financially drained from my search for a solution. Looking further felt tantamount to looking for trouble.

Sobbing, I called my best friend, Frani. “You have to keep on trying,” she asserted passionately. “But I’ve tried everything!” I cried.

“So try a new practitioner,” she said. “Try a different location.” “I can’t,” I replied, miserable. “It exhausts me to try new people, and it can be dangerous — practitioners have injured me. Besides, I don’t have the money to throw around.”

“Something else is out there,” she persevered. “You have to keep on trying to find what’s right for you.”

It was a long conversation that kept coming back to this one point: I had to continue exploring and staying open to possibility.

It was just months later that I had a series of epiphanies that led me to discover Dancing with Pain® — which dramatically changed how I experienced pain and enabled me to begin the process of healing myself.

As my mother says, life has corners: We can be in abject misery for weeks or years, then suddenly, inexplicably, stumble upon something that radically changes our lives forever.

Until that time, we have to do whatever it takes to keep on keeping on.

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