"Do not hurry, do not rest." -Johann Goethe
I've struggled over how to begin this post for a few days now. Everything sounds too dramatic, too big, too much. I'm tired of too much. I want simple words for simple things.
I've been sick- allergies, steroids, then a MS relapse related to the allergies, rinse and repeat. To be straight about it: January sucked and I'm glad it's over. I spent a lot of the month in bed reading Charlotte Bronte and ordering skirts on Etsy. Okay, the Bronte and skirts bit was all right, but the rest of it was pretty suck.
I'm coming to understand and accept that this Being Sick shtick is going to be a part of my life, and that I need to get okay with it. I'm still working on the acceptance bit- I have a tendency to waste a lot of energy being mad, or rebelling against my traitorous body- but I work at it. I'm learning to spend my energy carefully, as though there were a limited supply, because some days that might be the case. I'm learning to go steady but slow- to listen to Goethe, because heaven knows I'm no good at listening to my body just yet-learning to single- task, to slow down and pay attention. I'm even taking a crack at meditating, but that's another post altogether.
On the other hand- in the Things That Are Good column- I seem to finally have gotten over the dread "Copaxone hump"- I've gotten accustomed to giving myself shots, and it looks like my body has finally gotten used to the drug itself. No more baseball- sized welts, no more itching, no more accidentally wasting a dose by injecting the air. Best of all, no more of that creeping, burning sensation for half and hour afterwards- a sting, some warmth, but it's all so minor now. It got worse before it got better, but I'm glad I stuck with it.
Also a positive: all of those hours laid up left me with time to make lists and plans. I've been thinking out how to re- organize this blog into something more coherent- something I've struggled with since returning from Afghanistan. I didn't get any knitting done, but I've written pages and pages of plans for my life, our house, my body, and this blog. I'm rich in plans, I tell you. Filthy, filthy rich.
I'm also rich in comfort lists: scribbled into my black book are long rambling lists of random things that make me happy. I don't remember writing some of them, but I should dedicate a weekly post to these lists- re-reading them makes me feel warm all over, even without the mega- doses of benadryl, etc. To be honest, there's something about spending a day (or three weeks, whatever) in bed with your paper diary, some good books and lots of pencils, stoned out of your mind on legal, prescribed substances. I mean, I'm not advocating it, necessarily, but I definitely had some sort of quiet creative breakthrough last month, and that's another positive.
My inner critic is beginning to rear her head and snort at so much positive thinking. If I don't leave this soon she'll start muttering about my Pollyanna complex.
The teal deer version: I'm so sorry I let this sit for over a month. I was sick, but I'm feeling better now. I have plans. It's not all bad. More later.
