![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
juushikaIn a way I envy those who rail against the limitations of whatever illness they face—who would work, or do this specific thing, or just do more if they had the spoons for it. I don't have a lot of those desires. I begrudge what it means to be a dependent, useless slug, and it comes with a certain amount of guilt to be sure, but I don't wish I could work and I have little repressed desire to do Great Things. I still complain that it isn't fair that I can't function like a "normal" human being without significant preparation or by paying the price afterward, but ... I feel like I don't quite deserve to be well because, after all, what would I do with wellness? Play a different video game? Write more book reviews? Have more friends, maybe, but there is not something great just outside of my grasp and if only, if only I could reach it.
But perhaps that's as much a symptom of the illness as all the rest.
Horrible back day yesterday. I spent all day treating it until it was at the level that I could go out for a bit, and we did and we had a fantastic time. Back pain upon waking today, which is not unusual. But last week was the week of unremitting pain—tightness so severe that it made me nauseous to try to touch my chin to my chest—and Devon and I had to work all weekend (with all the tricks, plus medication) to get it to reasonable levels. And behold: it is not fucking fair that a few days later it's back and as bad, and I don't see him until next weekend and so I'm all on my own to try to deal with it. Having just taken medication I don't want to take more, but when I wake up in pain—and that happens all the time, but this is limping-down-the-stairs pain and I know it will only get worse...
I have no spoons. I have an adorable, energetic cat and some touch-up painting to do and these are fantastic things—yes, even the painting—because my life is beautiful, these days, and I should embrace and enjoy it. But I just want the whole world to disappear, I want to pretend I don't have a cat or anything remotely resembling a life; I want to stream Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes until my brain rots out my ears and it all goes away, just goes away. I know that the pain aggravates my depression, and that to some extent the depression will always be there, and that one symptom of the depression is this sort of apathy, hopelessness, disinterest; this desire for nothing (I have no desires, but some nothing sounds like it would be fantastic right now).
And when things are better, and I'm not one big pile of woe-is-me, I still don't want to do much with it. I rather like my life of sleeping all hours and wasting away my time, because it's part of the things that make me happier and healthier (even if I don't feel like much of either in this particular moment) and because it comes naturally to the part of me that has illusions of being a domestic feline and because I'm a lazy spoiled brat, yes, thanks much. But then who am I to wish to be happy and healthy? How can I dare? I don't dare disturb the universe. But I still wish I felt better than this.
Well this has been unrepentantly self-indulgent, but at least I feel a bit better for writing it down.
But perhaps that's as much a symptom of the illness as all the rest.
Horrible back day yesterday. I spent all day treating it until it was at the level that I could go out for a bit, and we did and we had a fantastic time. Back pain upon waking today, which is not unusual. But last week was the week of unremitting pain—tightness so severe that it made me nauseous to try to touch my chin to my chest—and Devon and I had to work all weekend (with all the tricks, plus medication) to get it to reasonable levels. And behold: it is not fucking fair that a few days later it's back and as bad, and I don't see him until next weekend and so I'm all on my own to try to deal with it. Having just taken medication I don't want to take more, but when I wake up in pain—and that happens all the time, but this is limping-down-the-stairs pain and I know it will only get worse...
I have no spoons. I have an adorable, energetic cat and some touch-up painting to do and these are fantastic things—yes, even the painting—because my life is beautiful, these days, and I should embrace and enjoy it. But I just want the whole world to disappear, I want to pretend I don't have a cat or anything remotely resembling a life; I want to stream Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes until my brain rots out my ears and it all goes away, just goes away. I know that the pain aggravates my depression, and that to some extent the depression will always be there, and that one symptom of the depression is this sort of apathy, hopelessness, disinterest; this desire for nothing (I have no desires, but some nothing sounds like it would be fantastic right now).
And when things are better, and I'm not one big pile of woe-is-me, I still don't want to do much with it. I rather like my life of sleeping all hours and wasting away my time, because it's part of the things that make me happier and healthier (even if I don't feel like much of either in this particular moment) and because it comes naturally to the part of me that has illusions of being a domestic feline and because I'm a lazy spoiled brat, yes, thanks much. But then who am I to wish to be happy and healthy? How can I dare? I don't dare disturb the universe. But I still wish I felt better than this.
Well this has been unrepentantly self-indulgent, but at least I feel a bit better for writing it down.
