On being a lump, and why it feels right.
Mar. 14th, 2011 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
juushikaThe thing about this constant state of lumpiness is that while part of be is a bit alarmed by it, it feels so right.
Prior to getting sick I was on what was for me a productive streak. I've been doing more multitasking these days, reading and gaming and writing and being social instead of concentrating on just one or two of these things until I exhaust myself; I am by nature given to extremes and so that feels out of character, but it also feels healthier and I've been encouraging it. It does mean that my productivity may not have been obvious—multitasking doesn't make for a steady stream of output, and no one sees my writing but me—but the productivity was there, and it was nice.
And then I got sick again, a fairly long sick, and was thrown off my groove; getting back on it is always hard. I feel like I should be productive, should be writing and communicating more, but right now even sitting up to use my laptop is work. Part of me rallies against that, the part of me that thinks I should at least mime being a productive and contributing member of society on the rare occasion.
But it was a weird sick. It was with a few exceptions almost a beautiful sick: chills and aches and fevers, a bit of a cough, an excuse to lie in bed all day and a clear sign that I was suffering and should be pampered. It got me in the habit of lying around like a maiden wasting away with consumption, weak and beautiful and indulged. (You know, like I already wrote about). In retrospect, especially given my poor memory, that's impression is even stronger.
So I got in that groove, instead.
And lying in bed all day feels right. It feels lethargic and wasteful, certainly, but it feels right. I've written before about my many issues with sleep, and in particular the relation between cat brain, human brain, and sleep. Lazing about is something I envy and idolize because it is not something I can often do. Sure, I can lie in bed and read, or I can waste away my days with little bits of nothing, but simple lethargy is not my strong point: my brain spirals into stress and anxiety, and there is nothing restful about that. I have never been good at doing nothing, except in the worst of my depression.
These days I've been doing nothing with aplomb. Oh, I'm still reading a lot (I am now four book reviews behind—the notes are all written out by hand, but typing the reviews, well, it means more sitting up) and I've been putting plenty of hours into Pokémon, but I'm not getting bored when I get to the end of the book and have nothing left to do, I'm not trying to trick my brain into quiet and sleep, I'm not restless or stircrazy in the least. I am calm halfway to the point of stupor—there's still plenty going on in my head, and there are letters and essays I want to write as a result, but nothing has urgency and oh, my bed is so comfortable
Probably it's not healthy, this indolence. It does get annoying after a while, to feel like I'm constantly falling behind on the things I want to say, to feel like I'm abandoning my friends. I wish I was able to type comfortably in bed.
But that doesn't change the fact that it feels right. It feels like more of who I am meant to be, cat-in-person that I am: still an alert intellectual, still consuming art and playing games, still loving and engaged, but also quite inclined to lie on something soft and do little at all for hours and hours at a time, curled and soft and sweet.
Prior to getting sick I was on what was for me a productive streak. I've been doing more multitasking these days, reading and gaming and writing and being social instead of concentrating on just one or two of these things until I exhaust myself; I am by nature given to extremes and so that feels out of character, but it also feels healthier and I've been encouraging it. It does mean that my productivity may not have been obvious—multitasking doesn't make for a steady stream of output, and no one sees my writing but me—but the productivity was there, and it was nice.
And then I got sick again, a fairly long sick, and was thrown off my groove; getting back on it is always hard. I feel like I should be productive, should be writing and communicating more, but right now even sitting up to use my laptop is work. Part of me rallies against that, the part of me that thinks I should at least mime being a productive and contributing member of society on the rare occasion.
But it was a weird sick. It was with a few exceptions almost a beautiful sick: chills and aches and fevers, a bit of a cough, an excuse to lie in bed all day and a clear sign that I was suffering and should be pampered. It got me in the habit of lying around like a maiden wasting away with consumption, weak and beautiful and indulged. (You know, like I already wrote about). In retrospect, especially given my poor memory, that's impression is even stronger.
So I got in that groove, instead.
And lying in bed all day feels right. It feels lethargic and wasteful, certainly, but it feels right. I've written before about my many issues with sleep, and in particular the relation between cat brain, human brain, and sleep. Lazing about is something I envy and idolize because it is not something I can often do. Sure, I can lie in bed and read, or I can waste away my days with little bits of nothing, but simple lethargy is not my strong point: my brain spirals into stress and anxiety, and there is nothing restful about that. I have never been good at doing nothing, except in the worst of my depression.
These days I've been doing nothing with aplomb. Oh, I'm still reading a lot (I am now four book reviews behind—the notes are all written out by hand, but typing the reviews, well, it means more sitting up) and I've been putting plenty of hours into Pokémon, but I'm not getting bored when I get to the end of the book and have nothing left to do, I'm not trying to trick my brain into quiet and sleep, I'm not restless or stircrazy in the least. I am calm halfway to the point of stupor—there's still plenty going on in my head, and there are letters and essays I want to write as a result, but nothing has urgency and oh, my bed is so comfortable
Probably it's not healthy, this indolence. It does get annoying after a while, to feel like I'm constantly falling behind on the things I want to say, to feel like I'm abandoning my friends. I wish I was able to type comfortably in bed.
But that doesn't change the fact that it feels right. It feels like more of who I am meant to be, cat-in-person that I am: still an alert intellectual, still consuming art and playing games, still loving and engaged, but also quite inclined to lie on something soft and do little at all for hours and hours at a time, curled and soft and sweet.
