I’ve been feeling all over the place lately, but the truth is, I haven’t really done much of anything. Sure, I have a high-pressure job with a never-ending workload, but I still feel stagnant because I come home completely drained.
I lie in my bed and rest my aching bones.
Sometimes I do more work.
Sometimes I fall asleep.
Sometimes I watch TV for hours as a method to tune out rehashing the storm of the day (plus TV is just my fave).
Sometimes my sweet boo-thang can drag me from the house for a dinner or errands.
Sometimes I can drag myself if it involves retail therapy or necessity.
But all of the time, I feel less than. I feel like that weird, floating, empty plastic bag from American Beauty, minus the beauty aspect.
Some of this comes from my mental health issues, but most of it stems from external situations, split right down the middle over whether I’m at the helm or not. The ones I don’t control discourage me from even trying to step up to the ones I do. It’s a vicious cycle compounded by permeating fatigue. And all the excuses I’ve made for that fatigue are just not realistic anymore.
I’ve gotten help for my weariness-inducing depression. I’ve exercised a lot and not at all. I’ve eaten right, and I’ve eaten wrong. I have slept for hours or barely at all. None of it ultimately fixes the debilitating weight of gravity I feel all. day. long. None of it takes away the pain or heartache it brings. None of it is normal.
So I think it’s time I call in the professionals. I need to let go of the idea that I can fix this fatigue alone, that this is one of the external scenarios that falls in my commanding ranks. I’ll hold up my end of the bargain with copious water, more veggies, lots of dancing, continuing my meds, and jerking back the damn wheel on the half of the outside stimuli I do hold command over, but a lady needs some help.
And it’s going to suck. I am going to get worse before I get better. I am going to have to be experimented on, pay a lot of money to find answers, add more to my plate(s), and barrel through it all like some non-existent superhuman.
But in the end, I will be the bright-eyed woman with a trash can full of completed to-do’s and dreams, a life’s worth of goals attended to because someone out there (YOU DO EXIST, RIGHT, DOC?!) finally cared enough to find out what was stopping her little body from letting her.