Moving Along...
The last few months I've been so fucking tired. I've had chronic fatigue for something like twenty-five years, and over time it has steadily ground forward like a rusted old wheel, gradually and tirelessly (hah!) getting worse. Not that it's terrible. It's like the flu, or like having worn oneself out working on a demanding project for weeks with little sleep, or having taken an ill advised rock-collecting mountain hike that has now lasted for several days too long, and still there's climbing and carrying packs full of rocks to do.
I don't identify with my illness, it just is, like an annoyance that never lets you go. And frankly I think I've taken it pretty well, considering that it has robbed me of most of what makes up a normal life. I can't support myself, I can't have any accomplishments or even much in the way of interests, I can't take a trip or go on a vacation, I can't raise a family because taking care of children is out of the question. Even a simple social occasion is often something I have to forego, or postpone for an elusive day when I'll feel better. And cleaning up the house is a rare event. But for the most part, none of these losses are anything that I have a burning yearning to conquer or overcome. I like the meanderings in my own head. I enjoy being contemplative, and just thinking, reading when it's not too taxing, and sometimes writing.
That's how I feel now anyway, which is why I'm writing this now. Other times a kind of panic descends on me, when simple resignation is not what I want, and there are things that demand doing that I can't postpone forever -- like buying homeowner's insurance because the old policy was canceled, and having to talk to those sleazy and unctuous insurance guys on the phone without losing my temper -- and things that don't demand getting done but that dammit I think I should be able to do if only I could just squeeze a bit of rational thought and some sense of order out of my fogged up brain, like writing something that makes sense and has a shred of insight or humor. And not just for the blog. I'd love to write something substantial, like a book. But that's something I don't know if I would be capable of doing even if I was well.
The tiny accomplishments I achieve on days when I feel somewhat better are downright quaint. I did the laundry on Saturday and Sunday, went to the laundromat both days (on Saturday Mike helped me). Then I folded and sorted everything by type and put it all away. That was huge. We've never had so many clean clothes, towels, and sheets in the house at one time. I should take a picture of the towering stacks of t-shirts and pants. Then on Tuesday I threw caution to the wind and went to the supermarket too, which was a bit too much. We don't have a car so I have to walk, pushing a folding cart, but the physical walking is not the only challenge, the more subtle demand is not looking wild-eyed, crazed or drugged as you make your way around people, when you really should be at home in bed, resting, instead of out and about, pretending that everything is perfectly fine.
I don't identify with my illness, it just is, like an annoyance that never lets you go. And frankly I think I've taken it pretty well, considering that it has robbed me of most of what makes up a normal life. I can't support myself, I can't have any accomplishments or even much in the way of interests, I can't take a trip or go on a vacation, I can't raise a family because taking care of children is out of the question. Even a simple social occasion is often something I have to forego, or postpone for an elusive day when I'll feel better. And cleaning up the house is a rare event. But for the most part, none of these losses are anything that I have a burning yearning to conquer or overcome. I like the meanderings in my own head. I enjoy being contemplative, and just thinking, reading when it's not too taxing, and sometimes writing.
That's how I feel now anyway, which is why I'm writing this now. Other times a kind of panic descends on me, when simple resignation is not what I want, and there are things that demand doing that I can't postpone forever -- like buying homeowner's insurance because the old policy was canceled, and having to talk to those sleazy and unctuous insurance guys on the phone without losing my temper -- and things that don't demand getting done but that dammit I think I should be able to do if only I could just squeeze a bit of rational thought and some sense of order out of my fogged up brain, like writing something that makes sense and has a shred of insight or humor. And not just for the blog. I'd love to write something substantial, like a book. But that's something I don't know if I would be capable of doing even if I was well.
The tiny accomplishments I achieve on days when I feel somewhat better are downright quaint. I did the laundry on Saturday and Sunday, went to the laundromat both days (on Saturday Mike helped me). Then I folded and sorted everything by type and put it all away. That was huge. We've never had so many clean clothes, towels, and sheets in the house at one time. I should take a picture of the towering stacks of t-shirts and pants. Then on Tuesday I threw caution to the wind and went to the supermarket too, which was a bit too much. We don't have a car so I have to walk, pushing a folding cart, but the physical walking is not the only challenge, the more subtle demand is not looking wild-eyed, crazed or drugged as you make your way around people, when you really should be at home in bed, resting, instead of out and about, pretending that everything is perfectly fine.
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