When I Feel Worse

Why is it that when I feel worse . . . I do more? Is it the distraction?

Because as long as I move, I forget for awhile. The moment that I sit, when I finally slow down, the tingles and aches find me.  As long as I keep going, I avoid that Moment of Truth when the fatigue settles heavy over my shoulders and the pain yawns awake and clamours for attention.

I know it sounds strange, that I wouldn't feel the consequences until I face the consequences.  But it's true.  I can go and go and go and it isn't until I cannot go any longer that the tidal waves of my choices catches up to me.  Ouch.

And I must want to avoid that.  That Moment of Truth.  When I feel worse.

Because soon after that Moment of Truth, that moment of ouch, that moment of "I cannot trick myself normal" . . . soon after that, the reality of my struggle rises up out of everyday living.  And then the Fears.

Fears for the future.  What if this new weakness or numbness or silly inability to open the living room windows, what if that lasts forever?  What if my hands go too numb to write or knit?  What if I can never draw another fairy-face?  What if part time work overwhelms me?  What if I have to stop working altogether in a few years?  Or next year?  What if a make a mess of my kids because I am a broken-mom?

And the Fears pile up like dust over the entire day.  They muffle the world.  Stifle me.

So then I must be bigger than those big Fears.  I must make the most of my skills here and now.  I'll be amazing.  I'll create new career-paths even while I pour everything into today's career.  I'll be sure that my limitations do no limit my children.  I'll shoulder the  tough-stuff because I must.  Because thinking I can might be more important than admitting that I can't . . .

And then I need order around me while my mind spins crazy.  I clean and organize because that helps calm the Fears.  See?  I am in control.

The whole dance spins magic until . . . we all know Until.  Until I free-fall into the Crash Zone.  Kick a chair leg walking past.  Veer into a corner turning too close.  Drop the coffee cup when I don't grip quite right . . .  Then the injuries.  And the migraines.  And the calm that I avoided becomes the only answer.  So I crawl into acceptance and store up energy.

I would think, by now, I would have better balance.  Balance in my choices, not in my actual walking through the world.  I know what to do.  I have the tools.  Yet I still feel guilty about downtime.  I still feel echoes of Lazy.  I still want to keep my challenges quiet and small.  They should be my own.  They should not affect anyone around me.  I should be able to look over and around and through them.  I should be smarter than my challenges.  I should figure out solutions.

But perhaps . . . perhaps there is no out-thinking my challenges.  Perhaps there are no solutions.

Why do I do more, especially when I feel worse?

Because doing less is worst of all.  Because feeling the world shrink feels worst of all.  Because the truth is hard to hold.

Yet I must hold that truth.  And the Fears.  And I must be strong by admitting weakness.  I must be strong by saying no.  Especially (most especially) to myself.

I will try to be better.

And then, maybe, I will feel better.

Less is more.