I broke myself

Well, well, well. It finally happened. I shorted myself out. Like an old-fashioned television. Bulbs exploding, wires hissing. There might actually have been smoke coming out of my ears. My brain and bod looked at each other sideways and, in an instant, with an imperceptible nod, agreed that that was enough. They pulled the plug and I slid slowly down the proverbial wall, melting into a lukewarm puddle.

There is actually nothing wrong with me, so say the medical experts. I have had all of the test, blood, scan and otherwise. My poop flew to Denmark alongside vials of my breath, blood disease was ruled out, and the CAT scans and ultrasounds show only a few pock marks here and there. All 'normal.'

But what is not normal is watching your bod slowly deteriorate. Well, that's not true. The bod looks the same. No weight loss, no muscle gain. No-thing. Status quo on the outside. But one day I had to lie down after taking a shower. On another, I found myself negotiating internally about whether or not I really needed to get that thing from upstairs. Once, during yoga I had to stop. Another day, I couldn't hold my arms up long enough to braid my hair. Then I couldn't walk up the incline at the end of my road. I'd wake up some mornings short of breath and if I had to repeat myself to my husband I'd meltdown because I didn't have the energy to speak again. All of this is very boring but interesting in retrospect because I can see, with the clarity of a frozen winter morning, how this came to be.

It is the culmination and accumulation of myriad variables in my life. I'm a sensitive being. No denying that one. I'm the kid who spent most of the time during a public swim underneath the hot shower because it was just too damn cold in that pool. I'm happiest in the corner, back against the protective wall, looking out at the party, eyes on the quickest escape route. Often sick, I spent weeks every year on the couch watching daytime tv while my tonsillitis healed. It was always easier to exist if I didn't have to engage in the world. My anxiety morphed from average to exceptional overnight and I found myself planning what to put in my Go-Bag in case of needing a hasty exit. A feeble physiology, sustained stressful periods in my life, a perpetual existential questioning of my existence and relentless self-hatred all combined to create a perfect Shit Sundae. The Covid Cherry on top doubled as the Straw from broken camel backs, and this past year I slowly folded in on myself until the brain/bod implosion forced me to Stop. Pfffffffffffft. Chronic Fatigue it seems to be. I never really thought it was a real thing. Fate shouted, 'Suckah!' but also threw a warm afghan over my shoulders, rubbing me on my back saying, baby it'll be okay.

As with most crises, in some ass backwards way, the blessings are abounding as I am beginning to learn, or unlearn, many poisonous habits of mind. More on that soon. For now I am sensing a rise from the ashes, not so much a phoenix, more a defeated coal tit rising from that lukewarm puddle, mud spattering everywhere.