recovery diaries

how to stay sane when the universe is giving you 100 reasons not to

For three weeks I negotiate with my body, I wake up each morning and take stock of what the day is going to ask of me.

Three weeks ago, I felt good. I was making plans and had a confidence building inside me that only comes from a run of good weeks. Then, out of nowhere, fatigue arrived back in my body like it had every right to be there.

What I notice is my fatigue has a quality of amnesia to it. Within a day or two I can’t quite remember what it felt like to not feel this way. The good days become abstract, theoretical. I can feel they existed, but I can’t access them. It’s like trying to remember being warm when you’re cold.

Chronic, severe fatigue has qualities to it I’ve rarely successfully explained to those who haven’t felt it. It’s like existing in dense molasses. My bones feel heavy, my body that a few weeks ago had structure, feels like it’s falling to pieces.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way for more than a few days and I won’t pretend to have a foolproof system, but I try, god do I try (siri play mirrorball by taylor swift).

The most challenging aspect, if I’m honest, isn’t the physical limitation. I’ve lived with that long enough to know how to strip away any non-essential activities and enter into pseudo-hibernation. The hardest part is the fear. The specific, brutal fear that this time it won’t lift. That my time is up, I’ve used my allocation of good days and now it’s time to go back to how it used to be. This fear has been wrong before, I hope it’s wrong again.

I feel angry that I’ve let myself be lulled into safety, put my guard down and found myself punished for it. At least that’s how it can feel. It’s hard to need to be back in my bed during the day, it’s hard to let people who I have obligations to down, it’s hard to be reminded of my fragility.

I await the day where my room feels like a sanctuary rather than a prison. If spaces hold memories, I’ve been trying to leech the painful ones out of mine for two years.

I hear a knock on the door, too soft to be a delivery person, and remember it’s my physio here for our weekly session. I explain how I’m feeling, she looks at me like she wishes she could fix it. I stretch, and it feels good. There is a unique compression in fatigue.

I journal. I push my thoughts away and instead watch comfort tv and mindlessly scroll. I cry when my sister checks in. I question if there’s some larger meaning I’m supposed to be receiving from this pain, because it feels fucking useless to me.

My boss calls me after I tell her I need to work from home again (I typically spend two days in the office). She asks me how I am, gently, and I struggle through telling her I’m scared. She promises she loves my work and wants to make it sustainable for me to continue. Don’t worry, I have a plan, she says. I feel like crying again.

I rely on the dopamine of food and parks and rec to keep me going. Dad bought me white chocolate, and I grab piece after piece, the sweetness eliminating my pain temporarily.

I start writing and feel grateful to be able to. I look over at the stack of books that were on my March tbr and feel deflated that after a month where I read six books, this month I’ve read none. I pick up exit lane, the shortest book in the stack and immerse myself in my love for a good love story.

March nears its end and I feel the fog lifting; my body is easier to hold up.

I make a mental list of things I want to do when I feel better. I start to get dressed again instead of spending days in pyjamas.

I cry again, this time with relief.