It’s pretty hard for me to admit I seem to be suffering some sort of illness or malady that has one major and rather debiliating symptom: fatigue. Fatigue that makes no sense, seems to have no good reason, serves no purpose, a bottomless fatigue that eats my time and mental energy and my Work and is interfering with what I want from and for my life.
It just Is.
The fatigue is so incredible and cannot be overcome with coffee nor better nutrition nor lots of little rests. I’ve tried many things. It was bad enough the other day I rode the bike to the local store to buy and then take a pregnancy test. I really did. You should know this is really silly; my husband has a vasectomy, and of course there is no other possibility for a gravid state. I took the test because even though a spontaneous reversal on my husband’s plumbing was a 1 in 4,000 chance the fatigue is just that bad. My recent bloodwork panel came back with results entirely the picture of health (and yes, the pregnancy test was negative). I have nothing to go on and:
I can’t figure it out.
Tonight Ralph is working with another musician and when I’m feeling Myself I generally can cook an amazing meal and get things done and cuddle with kids while Ralph & co. are practicing, a dinner to show for it, hands and body moving with purpose. I have a great deal to cut out to sew; in addition I have the meal to prepare. But my body is sluggish and tired and my mind worn out. There is simply nothing for it, no reason I should feel this way and no way I can’t cook at least and really, it is no kind of solution NOT to cook (especially when our fridge is bursting with foodstuffs from a bountiful harvest). I feel terrible because I hate it when I can’t hostess in the way I’d like. In this case the meal turns out fine (grilled chicken burgers with homemade pesto, Roma beans, coleslaw, fresh tomatoes and hardboiled eggs) and our guest stays and we talk family stuff and drink beer. The evening passes well enough and my sewing work is accomplished but at any moment I wasn’t sitting down my body and mind were screaming for rest. And please don’t judge me but rest I find boring (that’s what sleep is for, of which I get plenty). I want to Work.
When I am ill for a reason I can’t figure out, my anxiety goes through the roof. I am relatively good at coping with illness or disability I understand on some level – but this? I do not. It makes no sense to ask friends for “a break” or for them to watch the kids; the kids watch themselves really and are more help than hindrance. I have so little I really have to do – the housework, mainly. Yet I am too drained to go about the work I need to perform nor the work I want to, of which there is a lot, without exhaustion setting in.
I am also aware I don’t want to write about this. I have a worry my journal will soon become entries only regarding how Terrible I feel, absent from my own life of usefulness. I worry this will bore people who read. Then I think, That doesn’t make sense. No one has to read who doesn’t want to. It is more important to me to be honest about what’s happening in my life than to try to fake something better. I have been here writing for most of a decade at my best and worst and now, my rather meager.
I want myself back, or the Self I used to know. Will I see her again?