Spongy

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Today, Wednesday, March 24, 2010.

Cocooning day. Hormone headache. Tummy tilt. Gums tender. Legs rubbery. Mind sloppy. Depressed.

I thought about pushing through it all, mustering up energy and strength, taking a 7-mile walk around the lake, going out into the sunny day, letting my mind and body know who's boss.  Instead, I laid on my bed, curled up under the covers, and slept, awaking 2-hours later. The time 5:15 PM.

Do I rouse myself, go out into the sunshine and walk?  What if this happens in May, on my 120-mile hike?  I may have to walk then, especially if I'm in need of water and I'm not near a water source.  Gawd, what a sorry person I am.

My thoughts were tempted to delve into self-berating.

Earlier in the day, as I was endeavoring to push or not push, recognizing my symptoms, noticing the depression, I asked myself, Carol, what would you do if you had young child who had these needs?

I would take her in my arms, cradle her, comfort her, and rock her in the rocking chair.  I'd stroke her head.  I'd offer to play with her or to read some fun picture books.  I wouldn't think she was of despicable character or think she was vying for attention or that she was selfish and lazy.

Why not give yourself that same TLC Carol?

Later in the day, after my nap and awaking around 5:15 pm, I lay in bed looking out my window.  Sunshine.  Garage roof vents slowly spin.  Weeping cherry tree in full blossom.  Tall white pines in the back woods sway.

The day doesn't wait for me. 

Do other people feel as badly about themselves when they have an episode of illness? After all, this is illness, isn't it? 

Or do I berate myself more than most? Is it because of indoctrination, trained to think low toward my self, to condemn my self for not being able to believe for wholeness, to label my self unworthy and weak?

Give myself credit.  I worked long hours yesterday, up at 6:30 and to bed at midnight.  I hiked 16.5 rugged miles over the weekend. I at least got dressed today, made my bed, handled an overdue bill. 

Recall Carol how it used to be?  How you once could hardly function at all on these type days? Feeling like you had taken 3 quaaludes, unable to think, getting lost on a simple trip to the store, losing credit cards, sitting in the doctor's office crying unable to retrieve words while through sobs choppily making yourself try to describe how your body felt, "I feel like my connective tissue is disintegrating."

Butter died Monday.  I learned about Tom's death over the weekend.

Why can't I have more compassion toward my self? 

I can. 

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