[Note: A couple of weeks ago I had an especially rough day. Writing this got me through it. Maybe some of you can relate?]
I am a useless lump of a human being.
I'm tired, I'm unmotivated, and I have the self-discipline of spilled molasses. I wander around my house, just looking at things. Too bored to sit down. Too fuzzy headed to work. Too filled with self-loathing to just let myself be.
Lily scratches at my leg, and I pick her up, continue wandering. Her purrs penetrate the mental fog a little, and I rest my cheek against hers. No judgement here. But inside my head, it's all angry drill sergeants and ticking metronomes. I'm a wad of frustration, wrapped in wet noodles. I'd like to shake my fist at the universe, but I only have the energy for a bit of sullen pacing.
I'm not sad, though I look it. I'm angry. I can't decide which I hate more: the way I feel, or myself for letting me feel this way.
"Just get up and do something," John says when he finds me staring at the wall. "Come on, I'll help you."
And he does, for a few minutes. Gets me started on one of my many abandoned projects, or sets up that thing I need to photograph. But I quickly run into a problem. Either the paint isn't drying right, or the lighting is wrong, or that thing I need is outside in the garage. So I just sit there. Contemplating this one more thing I'm not getting done today.
I thought getting diagnosed with Hashimoto's was the answer. I thought the meds and supplements meant my days of crying on the couch because I just couldn't *move* were over. And at first, I did have a little more energy. For three blissful days after the doc bumped up my meds, it didn't feel like I was dragging lead limbs around. I wanted to stay on the treadmill desk all day, and had so much energy I actually started to feel afraid. It was so alien, being able to hop out of a chair anytime I wanted to, and even feeling a bit antsy if I sat still too long. "You're going to lose so much weight," John said wistfully, watching me buzz around the house.
But then there were some nasty, panicky side effects, blah blah, cut back on the such-and-such, and boom: here I am, a deflated Baymax, ready to power down within a few hours of waking up. Even bumping my meds back up weeks later had no effect; the magical fount of energy is truly gone.
I know I should be grateful. And I am. I'll take this over the panic. Always. I'd rather be listless than anxious.
I just hate that it has to be one or the other.
I base so much of my self-worth and happiness on my ability to be productive. To do things. It doesn't even have to be much! A blog post. A puzzle. A pretty photo. Something to show for my existence today, every day. It's why vacations are hard for me, and why I took up photography. The more I get done, the more I create, the happier I am.
So the days when all I've done is a Facebook update and a 6-hour Supernatural marathon? A complete waste. No reason to justify my being here at all.
Going to bed on a wasted day is like admitting a personal defeat. To sleep after having done nothing? It's a private shame, so curiously abhorrent that I put it off until the wee hours of the morning. So often I stay awake until dawn, fighting sleep with more energy than I've had all day, because sleeping means another day is well and truly ruined, gone for good.
The fact that that makes sense to me just shows how fuzzy I get.
I tell you readers that sometimes it's ok if all you did today is breathe. I tell you to give yourself time to heal, to hide, and to binge-watch Netflix. Sometimes I even tell myself it's ok, too.
But why do I need to hear it so often? ARG.
Then again, I wrote these words today. I vented a little of this frustration. Maybe one of you will comment and say, "me, too!" because maybe I'm not the only one who feels this way so much of the time.
If so, then let's just keep telling each other it's going to be ok.
Update: I need a picture here for my Facebook update, so here's the derpiest photo of Lily I've ever taken:
It just feels appropriate.