My last post was weeks ago and promised a weekly, if not daily, blog on clean, farm-to-table eating. With recipes! And photos!!!
Um, yeah, I haven’t quite followed through with that whole thing.
Lack of follow-through is a persistent problem of mine, like excessive hair dying and saying things I shouldn’t, so the fact that my diet blog lasted exactly one post will surprise no one. But it isn’t just that. Truth is, for the better part of the last several months, I’ve been trying to figure out if I’m depressed…that is, when I’m not too busy feeling depressed.
See, it’s tricky, ’cause I’m not sad. Or anxious. Or worried. I see the melancholy little raincloud guy on the Cymbalta commercial and I don’t think, “Hey, that’s me!!!” What I DO think–a lot–is, “How long till I can take a nap?” Or “What am I gonna do with my son all day if I feel too bad to get off the couch?” Or “I really can’t tell the difference any more between ‘normal’ and ‘in pain’.” And I REALLY can’t tell the difference between normal and about-to-fall-asleep.
At this exact moment, it is 3:07 a.m. and I tried a while ago to go to bed. I’ve been seriously fatigued all week, and I was awakened about 19 hours ago by severe pain in my right arm, as well as both hands and feet, so getting to sleep tonight shouldn’t have been a problem. Even with my sick seven-year-old and a puppy in my bed. Alas, after less than five minutes in horizontal position, I was literally tracking my RA pain as it moved up from my left big toe, into the bones of my foot, then my ankle, then knee. My palms were itching like the devil–an annoyance that I recently learned is a symptom of Crohn’s–as were my eyes. At this point, I sighed and hauled myself out of bed. Sleep isn’t in the cards for me tonight.
With all this in mind, I’m thinking I’m not so much depressed as I am pissed off. Sleep deprivation and itchy palms (and throbbing knees and ankles) will do that to a girl.
The truth is, I feel like a prisoner to my own body (not to minimize the plight of ACTUAL prisoners or anything; I AM a liberal, after all). I can’t plan anything because I don’t know how I’ll feel from one hour to the next, much less how I’ll feel in days or weeks or months. And if I plan, I have to be prepared to cancel or modify…or dose myself with extra steroids and pain meds to get through it. I’m exhausted and foggy and achy even on my good days now. And if I don’t die young, I’ve got another 35 or 40 years of this. And it’s progressive. Yay me.
So am I depressed? I’m still not sure. But I am tired and hurting. And guilty. Because tired and hurting people make really boring moms and kind of useless wives. I feel bad because my son plays alone a lot now that school is out for summer. And because I can’t even muster the energy to walk down to the laundry room, much less help my husband fold the mountain of clothes that is almost certainly waiting there. And because we’re eating way more PB&J and cold cuts and granola bars than we should, since standing for any length of time to cook anything is often beyond me.
Which brings this post full circle. That diet thing??? I can’t even be bothered to eat half the time these days and what I do eat is often not particularly healthy. It’s an unfortunate truth of American life that quick and easy food usually translates into “fattening salt-soaked chemical shitstorm.”
Hopefully my flareups and all their myriad of symptoms will dissipate soon and I can post some of those recipes I promised. Until then, send some healing vibes or magic sleeping powder my way if you’ve got them handy. Or, failing that, just send me pictures of men in kilts.