Feeling sorry for myself.

So this week hasn’t been a complete failure. I managed to get into the office for a couple of hours each morning (and slept all afternoon). Today is just a rest day. It’s also a wallowing in self-pity day. (I am self-aware enough that I am, but the situation being what it is, I can’t exactly snap out of it. Yet.)

Bear with me while I have a mini rant about being stuck in a body in which I cannot be active. Those who have followed this blog for a while know how much I love walking, that I dabble in watersports and feel quite at home in a yoga studio. Imagine my frustration when a 100m walk to my bus stop makes me want to sleep for 3 hours. And don’t get me started at basically being banned from pools and asanas. Being (hyper)active has kept the Black Dog at bay. All those happy endorphins and serotonin levels keeping my depression in check. But now… maybe this is just anticipating the worst and it won’t be that bad – but I am genuinely afraid of backsliding without the ability to be active.

Of course, this isn’t permanent. Getting ill the your body’s way of saying slow down. Maybe I have been too frenetic and my poor immune system freaked out completely. Maybe. I am as patient as a saint with others, but I don’t afford myself the same graces (sound familiar?). How does one actually begin to teach yourself to do that? Clearly, there is no silver bullet or instant solution. But I’m sure I have learnt to be more mindful of me since the Dengue fiasco of 2013. So why does the prospect of needing to be sedentary for a few months terrify me so much? What is it about being unable to do activities you take for granted that causes such despair? I am still mobile (although at 25% of my usual speedy pace); I can still think, communicate, and reason; my brain has stopped being fuzzy so I can read, and write – although concentration levels are low (doesn’t help the knitting either)… it’s just the being able to get up and go places and do things and be social and explore. Without the painful lungs and the need to cough up furballs constantly, the tight chest and the light-headedness. I cannot wait for the day when this all ends.

Yet I am endeavouring, stubbornly, to still improve myself. Unfortunately there’s 20-odd pages of Sagan I’m going to need to re-read because it just refused to go in. But in light of a tragedy I’ve been following for the last few years, I have finally ordered myself a copy of The Art of Asking. From what I’ve read about this book and seen of the TED Talk, this may be a little bit of a revelation to me. I also ordered Tessa Dunlop’s The Bletchley Girls, as I heard the interviews about it on Radio NZ a few months ago and it sounded fascinating. A different perspective of life and existence is always healthy.

So here I sit, hot water bottle on my back to ease the muscles tired from all the coughing. Watching the rain hit the windows, the wind blow and the birds outside in full voice. I know life isn’t that bad. 80 years ago, this pneumonia would have killed me. Now, I’m warm and dry and convalescing. I’m not in hospital, and I almost have my voice back completely. I have several people constantly reminding me to take it easy. I’m drinking Lapsang Souchong and eating the last of the box of chocolates my team at work bought for me as a get-well-soon present. A very good friend in London pointed me in the direction of Serial during an emergency talk-me-out-of-a-meltdown last night – so that may be my afternoon. And maybe finishing some knitting. If I can pay attention for long enough to do so. If not, my Pinterest will certainly get more love. And so will my pillow as I’m due another nap soon.

Thank you, dear reader, for putting up with my self-pitying wallow. I love the comments I get from my tweet stream and on the blog. You’re all a brilliant bunch and I ought to comment on those with blogs I follow instead of lurking like I am.

Keep warm if you’re in the southern hemisphere, and I hope it cools down if you’re in the north. Until next time, with hopefully a more upbeat post. ~S