I’m not gonna lie. I’m tired.
I don’t particularly want to be writing, right now. I’d rather be sleeping. This day just kicked my butt, and I’m ready for it to be over. But it’s not. It just keeps going.
I should not be this tired. My day was not that strenuous. Yes, I was up early, but that’s normal for me. I went for a walk, but the pace was leisurely. Other than that, I didn’t do anything particularly demanding, either physically or mentally.
But this is the time for fatigue to set in. I’ve been expecting it. For the foreseeable future, I will be wiped out by things that others think nothing of. As Susan Peirce Thompson puts it, it’s time to put my bunny slippers on. To treat myself gently, to not expect too much from myself.
There’s a part of me that just relishes that picture. It’s so different from the way I treated myself when my Food Controller was in charge. She thought the only way to achieve my goals was to push me as far as my strength allowed. To the breaking point. I can remember spending hours in the little gym in the basement at school. If I didn’t end a workout feeling nauseous and dizzy, it wasn’t good enough. When fainting on my way to the showers was a realistic possibility, that controlling part of me was pleased beyond anything. She was so proud of me.
I would lose weight. That was the important thing. I was strong enough. I would claw my way out of this mess I’d gotten myself into. I could do it.
But the rest of me was crying out at the brutal treatment. Such a strange mixture of elation and misery. Eventually, I would rebel, and the relief at not having to put myself through that anymore was amazing – at the same time, my controlling part was frustrated that I was ruining all her hard work, and my inner critic flooded me with guilt. Which I drowned out with food, of course. So much fun.
So the idea of purposefully moving slowly, of resting my body while keeping my lines bright, is attractive. My food controller is satisfied with the food limits. The indulgers are appeased with naps. My inner critic is a little harder to please – it thinks I could do more. But I’ll try to reason with it.
More importantly, the wounded little girl is so happy, she could cry. This is exactly what she wants: to be taken care of. She’s been sick, and she needs time to recover. Not just a few days, or weeks. She needs months.
It makes sense, in a way. I have been sick. Addiction has played havoc with my mind. And physically, obesity is a horrible, debilitating condition. Physiologically, it really is no different from any other illness. It puts the same kind of stress on your body – no organ system escapes unscathed. Recovery time from any illness is generally related to the length of the illness itself – and I’ve been sick with this for years. I can’t expect to just bounce back right away.
So it’s time for self-care. I’ll be sleeping in, tomorrow. I couldn’t go to sleep early tonight, needing to get this post done, but that’s ok. Writing is good for me. It’s been super helpful tonight – I’ve reminded myself that I don’t have to push through this fatigue. I can accept it. I can accommodate it. I can take a break. And eventually, I will get better. I will want to walk faster. To use my muscles. To put in long, productive hours.
For everything, there is a season.
I kind of wish this season hadn’t landed in spring, the time of year when the sun invites me to wake early, to go outside, to stay out late. It’s much easier to justify curling up in front of a fire with a blanket and hot tea when it’s snowing outside. But I’ll adjust. I’ll lie in the sun and soak up the vitamin D. I’ll walk on the beach. I’ll listen to calming music while I study. I can be active next spring.