Everyone else will tell me that I couldn’t possibly be exaggerating my symptoms or being lazy. Too bad I tell myself the opposite. Pretty much constantly the last few days.
Last Tuesday, I ran errands, napped and saw my massage therapist. I was home by 3 p.m. and crashed — for the rest of the week. Beyond getting mail from the front porch, I literally didn’t leave my house until Saturday night.
Yet I’m convinced that I’m faking it. That my headaches and migraines haven’t been too bad; they’re an an excuse to read instead of attending to everything else in my life. So I have pushed myself to clean the contents of our basement (which flooded last Monday) out of the dining room and empty the dishwasher and check e-mail. And, and, and.
For once, I’m remembering that I’m not guiding this illness. I have been so sick the last two months that I can’t even keep appointments with doctors and massage therapists. As much as I berate myself for not actively seeking treatment, I know that I am honestly unable to right now.
I’m holding tight to the good hours I’ve had in the last week. Thursday and Saturday started well; Friday was good overall. Each day I was up and active until the pain, fogginess and nausea overwhelmed me. I was thrilled to be doing chores.
This isn’t the life of a faker. I’m not a faker. If only I were — I could be free of this misery and piece my life back together. I know all this deep down, but my mind stalls at self-criticism. Today I hear the faint murmurings of truth hiding under layers of doubt and judgment.