Delicious lentil soup brought over by a friend.
I am in bed again. For the sixth day, although I haven’t stayed in bed as diligently as the time I was sick in December. I get up, I go to work for half a day, I become exhausted, I go back home, back to bed.
The moments when I am able to relax into the sickness and simply rest are beautiful, restful. But there are lots of moments that are not…
I just got home from the walk in clinic, where the doctor told me it’s likely the flu, and there’s nothing really I can do but take vitamin C and advil and ginseng and rest.
And so I lie in bed again. But I am agitated to the point that I was practically vibrating. I sit up, I started to write. What is going on? What do I very much want to smash something right now? I hate this feeling. I hate being sick. I hate everything.
As I walked home I thought about how lucky I am to have easy access to a doctor, to have a warm house, healthy food, everything I need to heal. I should be peaceful, grateful, but instead I am vibrating. Instead I feel like something is going to explode inside me.
I continue to write, and it starts making sense. I write,
I am an idiot, it’s all my fault, I pushed myself hard last week and now this. I think that I’m invincible, why wasn’t I more cautious with my energy. What the hell is wrong with me? I should throw myself in the trash. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve to be alive.
And suddenly it clicks, suddenly I know this part of my mind. Shame.
I know that my self worth is tied up with my productivity and when I am sick I don’t get as much work done. And then the demon in me comes out and ask, “Who do you think you are to rest? You’re probably going to get fired for calling in sick you lazy useless piece of s***.”
I’ve seen this shame part before but never made the link of the shame that comes forward every time I get sick. I emerge from my muddled agitation with clear eyes.
So now, even though the battle with the virus is not yet over,
I feel as though I have won.