I hate them. They’re the days you just really feel like shit. The days that the weight of the world is on your shoulders, and you can’t help but take it out on unsuspecting loved ones who cannot possibly understand, because you have done everything you can to protect them from having the information they need in order to understand.
They were daily while I was on bedrest; I expected too much of myself, my body, and those around me, and everyone suffered because of it. They became less frequent as time progressed, but they returned this spring with a vengeance when my body refused to cooperate. They are the days that I have fought off for the entire fall; the days that I’ve been in counseling to combat; the days that I have spent countless hours fighting against with positive thinking, deep breathing, and every other possible path to acceptance.
But they still happen. No matter how much work I put in, no matter how much support I have, no matter how far I have come. I still have the ugly days. It’s exhausting.
I don’t want to feel this way – I want to be the picture of a 20-something who can juggle a chronic illness and a full-time job. I want to be the adult woman who can control her emotions and handle what life throws at her.
My theory currently is that I have found a psychological homeostasis with the day-to-day dealings, but when an additional stress is piled on top, I buckle. It’s less frequent than before, but it still happens. As much as I don’t want it to, as much as I try to prevent it, I buckle.
This one will pass. Until then, I’m trying to minimize the damage and implement the techniques I’ve been practicing for such a time as this.