Exhausted. Achy. Feeling bloated. Lethargic. I could sleep for a week.
This week so far can be summed up, thus!
I’ve struggled, big time, this week. It’s not been too hot, but I feel worn down by the heat somehow. By the time I finished work today I was almost screaming out in pain. Not the type of pain that is instant and excruciating, but the kind of pain that wears you down ‘cos its been around for weeks, gnawing at your psyche. Its difficult to explain. From the outside I’m a big, fat, lumbering old fart. Nobody should have any sympathy for me, its all my own fault. I’m fat because I eat too much (not true); I’m sure that’s what other people think. That’s what one half of my own being thinks. The other half doesn’t think, its too busy working to keep up the pretence. The pretence that I’m alright. The pretence that I’m coping, still able to function as a normal human being. The pretence at being happy, content. Somewhere in the middle of these two halves is a molecule of love, respect, compassion, sympathy, empathy … all the things I give to others relatively easily, but which I find difficult to give to myself. I feel unworthy.
I don’t know if I understand love, respect, compassion etc. or should I say I’ve never felt love, respect, compassion etc. from anyone else. I hear the words, but I don’t feel them, I don’t feel the emotion behind the words coming from anyone. Is that normal? Are they just words? Is that why I don’t know how to do it for myself. Growing up I thought love was being given something you wanted, whether it was food, clothes or stuff; something other than the mundane. Dinner was just dinner, but when I got my favourite meal (cauliflower cheese) it was given with love; I’d get cauliflower cheese on my birthday, but other than then it was a meal hardly ever had. Take clothes, of course I had clothes when I was wee, but they were everyday clothes, hard-wearing and boring. There were no pretty clothes; perhaps one item for best, but otherwise they had a purpose, to cover your ruddy body; not to be loved or to make you feel good. Clothes were utility. And stuff, I got stuff I needed for school, the occasional treat, but I never got the stuff I actually wanted; perhaps once, I did get a cassette recorder (see photo) one Christmas, which would get confiscated when I was naughty. I remember it being confiscated a few times, but I can’t think of anything I did, at that age (probably around 11 years), that was so naughty. I ruddy loved that cassette recorder. I think this was when I started to love things more than people…when I realised things didn’t let you down the same way people do.
I don’t know if, how I am, how I think of myself and how I treat myself are a throw-back from my childhood, or as a result of an overactive, under-stimulated, depressive mind. All I know is I feel sad, empty, lonely, angry, resentful and achy most of the time; I think living with Lipoedema and Fibromyalgia just adds to this ‘cos when I feel run down, from trying to function properly, my internal voice seems to ramp up its constant criticism of everything and everyone. I wish I could find a way to switch it off. I am hoping that by writing these things down it will help, but even then my little critical voice inside is still chirping away…