I’m blogging on my phone from bed again because I’m feeling kind of low today. I’m not apologizing for it, but I am offering something of a warning. In case any of you are feeling less than content too and need to postpone reading more not-happy stuff.
First, I feel mostly sad and anxious today. As is usual with these kinds of things, I can’t clearly articulate why. Maybe the margarita I had last night to celebrate our five year anniversary has depressed me? One drink has never made me feel this way before, but I am still in the habit of internalizing the thousands upon thousands of messages I’ve received since I became chronically ill–messages that tell me everything bad that happens is the result of some choice I made. I had bread instead of Brussels sprouts last week. No wonder I hurt everywhere. I colored a drawing instead of riding the FitDesk for 30 minutes. Of course I can’t move my joints. I drank a margarita instead of water with dinner. Of course the whole world is closing in on me.
Or maybe I’m just having a harder time than usual pushing the stressful stuff out of my mind because sometimes that happens to people.
I do know I’m worried about the book. It’s the same kind of mental yuck I’d get as a kid the night before I had to give an oral presentation at school. Only the big difference is I’m not being made to write this memoir. I’ve chosen to do it.
It just feels so huge an undertaking, and I’m not sure I’ve got what it takes. (Not, like, do I have the talent, but am I able?) ‘Cause if I don’t pull it off, there will be even bigger financial worries in my future. And, hello, Universe? I don’t know if you noticed, but I already have a brain tumor. I don’t really need any more personal struggles. I’m good. I have built soooo much character in my 38 years.
But I feel the self-imposed burden to finish what I started, when it would be so much healthier for me if I could say to myself, “It doesn’t matter if you finish this,” and then really mean it.
Also? I have an earache, which has more to do with me being in bed than run-of-the-mill depression. I could pout for days. And winter hasn’t even started.