I’m having one of those mornings when I feel like myself. Like the me I know from way back.
My head is stuffed with daydreams and plans. I’m deciding – in an absent minded way – what I might do today … do some painting, tidy up, do some gardening, get organised, whisk my beloved out somewhere … generally how shall I spring around bursting with energy once this groggy sleepiness is gone?
Except it’s not groggy sleepiness – it’s a low energy buzz. My brain and soul is ready to go, my body is definately not.
Days like these are the dangerous ones. The ones where it’s all to easy for me to push too hard, push past the tiredness like I used to with every other illness or pain I ever had and send myself crashing into bad, ill territory.
Days like these remind me that it’s not lack of motivation, desire, or want that keep me locked in incapacity – it’s illness that stops me in my tracks.
Days like these confuse the hell out of me. I just feel like me – the me I know so well. The me who runs at things with a flurry of intense activity to get it done. Except I don’t have the resources for that now and I don’t know if I ever will again.
It’s almost a cruel blow – to feel so ready and yet be so ill equiped to fulfill the plans floating around my head. I have to strive hard to focus my mind on the postive – that ‘feeling ready’ is at least a sign of hope. I think. Hope of … something.