I’m tired. And I don’t have anything positive to say. It feels like too much work to pull out the pompoms. To pull myself up by my boot straps. I’d rather float around in a foggy-headed daze. Numb and disconnected from myself. The longer I sit in this floaty state, the easier it is to stay. It is my cocoon from the world. It is my, “why bother?” place.
The thing is, I stopped moving. I got sick on Friday, 2/12/16. I walked in the door after a long day — chilled and achy — and I immediately started a fire before I even took off my coat. As I placed the last log on the pile and struck the match, I stood up and said in a surprised tone, “I’m sick. I think I need to go to bed.” I stepped away from the fireplace, turned, walked up stairs and crawled under the covers. I never do that. Ever.
I stayed there through Tuesday and was in and out of bed for the rest of week. Walloped by the flu. Which is awful, by the way. I found myself saying I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. But actually that isn’t true; I would wish it on both of them. I found myself wondering if I was going to have to go to the hospital. Tamiful helped. But it killed my stomach. And I have a cough that lingers still.
As I’ve gotten better, I still haven’t moved my body. When I don’t move I start to shut down and everything feels harder. I’m retreating into myself and resorting to my childhood survival skills of getting really small and just curling up into a quiet place inside of myself. Numb.
I’m so disappointed by life. I never wanted it to feel so hard. I thought I could be okay with the messiness of it all, because as I say — things shift. Clouds blow past. Life is our human experience and it doesn’t come easy for any of us. Our perception matters. Our thoughts help. We have control over both. But what happens when you just feel like wallowing?
I feel like wallowing. Slipping away. Shutting down. Turning inward. Why bother? What’s the point? It will just be hard again. And again.
I’m thinking about pulling out of Ironman Texas. I don’t have the heart to keep pushing. Rob and I are so different. He’ll keep working at all costs. I’d rather walk away. Slip into a little VW Microbus and wander the world aimlessly. Not really existing anywhere; with nothing to anchor me to being here. Now. I just don’t care anymore. I am apathetic about being passionate about anything.
Life is hard. I just want you to know that I know that. I guess I have a choice to make. Will I move or stay stuck? I’ll probably move but I’ll be pissed off about it at first. And I’ll go kicking and screaming. Until I won’t. Until I’ll be glad that I got up. Pulled out the fire hose, turned it on full throttle and blasted all the mud and grime off of myself. Because, that’s what we do. We choose to move.
I’m sitting on the couch in my bathrobe … I never wear a bathrobe. I hate bathrobes. I’m watching the Valentine’s Day balloons Rob bought me tangle on each other as the heat blows. Twisting and turning them. I find them depressing. I’m getting up. I may not move but I’ll make a cup of coffee. And I’m going to pop those stupid balloons getting stuck on themselves. It’s a start.
Sending love to you all. Take care.