My mom told me that I just “like to suffer,” that even though I’m in pain, it’s more fun to complain about it than to take care of it. I wanted to tell her that I know. I know. I know I don’t take care of myself. I know that I dig my heels in when somebody asks me to do simple tasks to take care of myself. I know that all I need to do is take my allergy meds or call my doctor, but I fight it and take half the day working up the energy to do so—because I’m depressed. I know that these tasks are simple, and once I do them I’ll feel better, but the energy required to do them, emotional or otherwise, is monumental. Sometimes I don’t even know why I’m digging my heels in; all I know is that these tasks are unpleasant, and the prospect of adding more unpleasantness to my life is, at times, unbearable.
So, yes, I know that it doesn’t look like I’m trying. I know. But I really am trying my best. I’m fighting against a disease that drains my soul of every good thing within me, that forces me to ignore the good and focus on the bad, that makes every small task monumental. I want to explain it, but all I can come up with are excuses.
Right now, every muscle in my body aches. I don’t know why. My head is foggy, and I’m drowning in bone-deep exhaustion. The tasks that I know I need to do tower above me, and everything feels so overwhelming I think I might cry. I don’t know how to fix this. All I know is that I don’t like to suffer, but it seems like that’s the easiest course of action. I know I need to get better, but I’m lost as to how. I know. I know.
I have no idea what I'm doing.