I’m doing it again. Isolating. Not writing. Not engaging. Nothing is important enough to blog about, so I blog nothing at all. I’m back to being fully enmeshed in writing my novel. My YouTube channel is still the thorn in my side, like each time I have to step out of my book to create, film, and edit our weekly episodes, I’m being pulled from the womb of creation. Shoved into the cold, bleak reality that I actually live in, not the over-dramatized and fully manipulate-able world I’m creating where people can engage in all sorts of insane behaviors and I suffer no actual consequences.
My real world is nowhere I want to be right now. Especially after I spent 12 hours in the ER the week before last, suffering from and being diagnosed with an acute case of colitis. The simple action of receiving a diagnosis in 12 hours is a miracle that’s hardly lost on me. Hell, I’ve had fibro for 14 years now and they still have no clue what’s causing that… But I guess my body wanted to offer up some diagnostic proof for my pain, so the CT showed inflammation in my lower intestine. Is this another chronic illness or a one time thing caused by an infection or something? I don’t have any of the symptoms of colitis on a regular basis. Did intermittent fasting, or the way I was doing it, kick something off? I guess I won’t know until my GI appointment in September.
The mentality I had to adopt in order to survive my CFS relapse is, by normal standards, the laziest way a human being can possibly live. Basically I had to lay around all day and could only be active in short burst, until the first moment that veil of fatigue started to slide over my eyes, whereupon I had to immediately resume doing diddly squat. ASAP. If I ignored the muslin obscuring my view and pushed on, I faced long spells shrouded in thick velvet cloak of extreme fatigue. No short bursts were possible at all. That does something to a person’s mind, forcing oneself to not exist while existing. To squash down every biological impulse telling me that to endure I must fight, push back, work harder. Where in the survival of the fittest life chain does a person with chronic fatigue syndrome exist?
It took years, and I’m still not sure why or how, but thankfully my tango with CFS is behind me. But my mind has not recovered. It’s not that I sit around all day doing nothing. No, that’s not it at all. But that extra push that’s required to get me back to a normal, functioning, productive, part-time member of society, well, I’m terrified of it. I’m terrified of myself. I’m terrified I don’t know how to recognize the line, what it takes to not fall flat on my face in the cesspool of never-ending sickness. So I sit here in perpetual excuse mode going nowhere with my life. Years are passing me by.
The only times I’ve ever changed my life were when I got so sick and tired of my own shit I couldn’t handle me for one moment longer. Or I became so terrified of the impending consequences continuing to travel down the road I was on would yield, I didn’t feel I had an option. So what I really want to know is, am I there yet?
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