… but it’s complicated.
There’s no formula, just trial and error. Stopping and starting. Resting. Re-framing ‘doing nothing all day’ as ‘pacing’. Considering being able to get out of bed before lunchtime as an achievement. Being paralysed with anxiety, unreliable, weepy. Pains in random places. The room spinning even when I’m lying down. Never feeling good enough for the people in my life.
You would not believe the paperwork that goes with having a chronic condition and being unable to work, the justifying one has to do, as if one had chosen this lifestyle.
‘Can you …?’ ‘I plan to.’ That fudge of a yes is the most I can say; there’s always the caveat that I may not be fit for it.
I would love to know that doing X + Y = too much. Life would be so straightforward then. Nothing is that simple. There are too many variables, all of them unpredictable.
There are many, many things I want to be doing. I can only hope to do a small fraction of those. Often I feel frustrated because I can’t do all the volunteering. Today I’ve been pacing the house, wound up to the highest of doe because I can’t do everything for a girl that she wants me to. (I know that if I were well and in work I wouldn’t be able to do it either, but I wouldn’t have the crushing guilt and anxiety then.)
Pesky ME. It’s not me, it doesn’t define me, but it plays waay too big a part of my life.