The last couple of weeks I have been trying to ignore the pain in my side and the interstitial cystitis (peeing is like shooting hot lava out of my crotch) and just muscle through. I need to be on duty here at home. Also, I have found that when pushed, I can fake it pretty damned well.
However, as many of you with a chronic illness know, there is a very fine point between pushing yourself, faking it and falling over the precipice into being too sick to function.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we came equipped a warning light? I think it should be just like the one on my car’s gas tank. It should show when I am getting low on fuel and then have a graphic aid that shows where the tank is located.
Interesting point about how my brain works: I can never remember which side the gas tank is on, even with the graphic aid. In fact, when I look at the graphic, I get more confused. I only get it right if I just do it without thinking.
Is there a metaphor here? A lesson? Hmmmmmmmmm.
My teen aged son is suffering from clinical depression. He has been treated for this before and has had problems related to his sleep cycle his entire life. Apparently, having mono this spring, coupled with a huge leap through puberty, has upset his chemical balance horribly. I should have been on top of it sooner.
He is miserable.
Chemicals and family genetics that predispose him to depressive illness aside, we have had another tough year. I have been in and out of the hospital and that has been rough on him and the rest of the family unit.
In addition, caring for my aunt and taking into account the relationship he has formed with her, are also factors. For the last school year, she has picked him up from charter school on a number of days. I think they have both enjoyed it. I have felt like it was a great chance for my son to bond with the only remaining “elder” we have.
Now, she is on the decline, and he is having to live through that experience, just as he has done, with three other grandmas, in the last four years. It’s too much for a fourteen year old to process. I don’t care how much therapy you go through; it’s tough.
Hell, I can’t process it either.
I feel like I am a calloused bitch when it comes to my aunt. I can’t ‘feel’ anything. I am just numb.
Obviously, my son is feeling things.
So, Onward and Upward.
Muscle Through.
I am really trying to get some muscle tone back into my physical body. I have been doing arm exercises and tummy exercises because my body doesn’t look right. I mean, I know I am fat and overweight and all that but usually my body is firm.
Firm has gone bye bye.
Maybe part of this stage of life is about building psychological muscles as well.
I can’t afford to go all flabby on the inside. I have to keep my head up.. keep marching… so the rest of my crew can see my flag… jauntily waving… even when things suck.
That is actually a good thing. It makes me proud to be me.
I am a good flag carrier
Go, Me!