There are days when things are just more difficult. Days when I am bone tired. The kind of tired that is not accounted for by lack of sleep or busyness. It’s the kind of exhaustion you can only really understand if you live with a chronic illness.
I take care of myself well, and I try to do the things I’m supposed to do, and for the most part, I’m good. I’m fortunate enough to have conquered the feelings of hopelessness, and certainly don’t consider myself to be depressed. But some days are hard…
Today is one of those days. The pain and exhaustion have caught up. I count myself lucky when these flare ups fall on a weekend and I don’t have to force myself to perform. I don’t have to struggle to lift my leaden limbs and force my clouded brain to clarity. I don’t have to smile and respond with, “I’m fine.”
Sunday’s are good. I can kick back and let my body rest. I can stay in my pyjamas, although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t really need an excuse to stay in PJs.
This listening to my body is not something I’ve always done. To my detriment, it turned out. If you don’t listen to your body, it eventually forces you to do so; and mine did. Several times. So now I try to honour the not so subtle nudges. I ignore the guilt of chores not done. I ignore the, possibly in my own head, judgements of “laziness”. I tune out the “should be’s”. I try to rest, knowing that resting is not restorative. That this is something I just have to ride out. Today is a hard day, coming at the end of a pretty good week, so I’m not complaining. I’m listening to my body. I’m taking it easy, which may not seem any different to an outsider since I am not overtly active at the best of times. What it means is that I am disengaging mentally too… not thinking, not planning, just being. Waiting for this particular wave to pass, and hoping it does so before Monday arrives.
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