My health has been very up and down recently, with I think a general trend up. I’ve gotten out of my old moldy room, and I’m taking the correct meds, and sticking to all the other healthy behaviors I’m supposed to. And I think there’s been some improvement. Not as much as I seem to keep assuming, though.
I just keep trying to live, oh, let’s say one-third of a real person’s life. Ish. Maybe more like a quarter. And then my body none-too-gently notifies me that that constitutes “overdoing it”, and then I feel sick and run down and have to rest and recover, and then I promptly forget whatever lessons I should’ve learned from that and start trying to live that fraction of a real life again. I just don’t learn when to stay down, is the problem.
So I’m basically bedridden a couple days a week in addition to my otherwise generally low productivity and usefulness. And yes, I’m still calling this progress. It is progress; it’s just subtle. Demoralizingly subtle.
I wouldn’t be overdoing it like this if I weren’t feeling a little better, though: a little more energetic, hurting a bit less. Maybe I just have to learn the limits of my new level. Or maybe it’ll catch up to my modest (for now) dreams of sub-functionality. A girl can dream.
