It’s been a rough … well, I’m not exactly sure how long, but it’s been awhile.
I’m in the kind of slow decline into a flare where each day is just ever-so-slightly worse than the one preceding it. But since the increments are so small that I don’t realise it until I’m thinking back to last week or last month and it hits me that I felt so much better, then.
It hit me this morning when my mum called while I was getting for work. After just saying, “Hi, mum. … I’m doing alright, and you?” she asked if I was sure I was doing OK because I sounded “sad.” Well, dang, Mum, I guess I am a bit sad.
I know I have no real cause for complaint; despite my illnesses, I have a pretty awesome life. I feel like a jerk for adding a “but”—but there is one, after all. I guess it’s just a piling on of little things: a long and exhausting flare, a job I don’t love, medications that don’t work and a host of other insignificant details that, taken together, just feel like too much right now.
I know everyone feels this way at some point and that those of us with chronic illness are perhaps more likely than the average Joe to feel like it never ends, but that doesn’t make it easier to deal with. I know the steps I should be taking to try to make things better. I just need to buck up and get to it.
Today, it feels like that’s easier said than done.