Wednesday, 23 March 2016

Recovery. Again.

When I started this blog, 7 years ago (I think?) I was in the acute stages of a nervous breakdown and I wanted to find a way to process not only what was happening to me, but also my feelings about what was happening to me. A lot has happened since then. Depression. ME/CFS. Recovery. Another baby. Losing 100lb. Going back to work. Dual redundancy. Running a marathon. My husband's breakdown. Kidney failure. Starting our own business. Our eldest son going to university and leaving home. A total hysterectomy.

The more things change...

So I find myself, again, at the bottom of a mountain wondering how the hell I'm going to scale it again. Like 7 years ago, I am despairing a bit at what lies ahead.

Last year was a dreadful year in lots of ways for me, not least because I felt my health slipping away from me with every month that passed. When I stopped running, last August, I was marathon training and up to 18 miles. It took me several days in bed to recover from the exertion - and that was before the kidney failure. 

One of the hardest things is that, when I was actively recovering, in 2013, I felt totally in control of my life and my body; I felt empowered. I felt that it was simply a case of me taking charge of myself. That was a good, if scary, feeling, because I could influence my life for the better. Hell, I could influence *the world* for the better. What I had to swallow last year was that, despite a Herculean effort on my part, everything was slipping away from me. Physical success is about more than sheer effort.

That, my friends, has been the hardest thing to swallow.

What has followed is months of "can't be arsed." Whilst my brain is telling my body to eat healthily, to go out and take a walk, or have a little run, a part of me thinks 'what is the point?' I can't control everything. I might fail. Does it really matter if I can run or not, or what my dress size is?

I've "can't be assed" with exercise, and food - especially whilst stuffing myself with chocolate and all sorts of culinary delights (read: junk food). Has it made me happy? No. Did running make me happy? Yes. Is it as easy as getting out there and running again? No. No. No. It hurts, and what's the point? I'm climbed that damned mountain before. And yes, the view from the top was amazing, but can I really be bothered to expend all that energy all over again? I won't be able to stay at the top forever. So am I doomed to this journey over and over and over?

Am I happy being a half ass? No. I am tired, I am jaded, I am frustrated. I feel claustrophobic. 

Do I want to live the rest of my life as a half ass?




So I flagellate wildly between a rock and a hard place. It's 16 weeks since my operation. 8 weeks since I stopped wearing a catheter. I'm still self-catheterising up to 8 times a day. My body is 3 stones fatter, and frankly, a foreign fucking land.

What do I do?

I'm going to have to haul my fat, lazy ass up that mountain again, but its about as attractive an idea as taking a pee on an electric fence.

How do I find the energy for this fight when I barely have the energy to get through the day?

How do I find the energy for this fight when I barely have the energy to get through the day?

How do I find the energy for this fight when I barely have the energy to get through the day?

Answers on a postcard.