essence of sad

Have you been so sick for so many years, that you lack the will to go on?

They say health is the most important thing, cheerfully they pronounce it, to inspire their gratefulness, 

to wash away their great unhappiness.

But you don't have health. 

You don't have well. 

They say friends too, they are better than career you know. 

Career, it went, but friends you have. 

You have friends you rarely see,

friends you hold on to, but always fob off. 

You love them from your couch, but it isnt enough.

You don't cook for them, ever, and you're always writing to say 

'less than an hour, but I love you ok'. 

I'd love you better if I could. 

My mind loves you. I swear. 

They say happiness inside, that's up there too. 

Peace for the ride.

And you have that one. But with essense of sad.

You want it unconditionally. 

In the sore, crawling, lonely, drought.

But it morphed into sad, behind your back, so now you feel bad. 

That you're sad. 

Sick bad, and then guilt bad. 

And lonely bad, and too-long bad,

And hermit, outcast, worthless, cold,

too-much, and can't-go-on bad. 

Till the sun pops out. 

It kisses you and hugs you and shouts:

It's a beautiful day to be alive.

Alive. 

You have alive! 

And alive is meant to be here,

and meant to be here is purpose,

and purpose is go on. 

unexpected

source

It’s a chilly June morning. The cold lights a red swollen fire in my throat and keeps it burning all season long. “I’ve got a virus at the moment,” my sister warns when I ask her if she’d like to join me on a walk. “Oh no, me too,” I reply. I mean, I have a glandular fever flare like last week and the week before, because it’s permanently active. When I expend extra energy, resources my body usually uses to control the virus, things become a fiery hell. A day in bed. It sounds fairly innocuous. But then again, all things seem innocuous in small doses, and I have a full time job now. We made a decision earlier in the year that we would either move to a warmer climate or buy a winter-long supply of the only thing that helps. The thing is not at all cheap, and not at all vegan, but it helps contain the flare radically. We ship it on bulk from the US. It is made from a calf’s thymus gland, a protein that my immune system needs more of to fight infection.

But I digress from the cold morning. I hustle to eat breakfast, tidy up the lounge, have a shower, because I have to lie down at 8.30 am with the poppet. Aurelia sleeps radically better next to a human, and we made a decision to stop the cot fights and fails, and co sleep for now. I only resent needing to nap with her when I compare to the women whose babies sleep alone, in cots. Comparison is especially the thief of joy in parenting. I know some mums get ten entire minutes to sip a hot drink all by themselves because they share it on social media. I fantasize about cleaning the bathroom without my often groaning spectator. On the weekend I was whittling through the flesh in my lobes, trying to re-pierce my neglected holes because my morning slot is a mad rush to get up and get back to bed.

Neither Aurelia nor I believe that we need to go to sleep at 8.30 am. We lie down thinking this is quite unnecessary, and that of course we can both stay up all day. But in a few minutes she surrenders, and as I surrender to mothering her in this manner, a sleepiness I could have sworn I would not feel, creeps into my eyelids. Maybe this isn’t such an encumbrance after all. Maybe this is actually the perfect thing.

The irony does not escape me. I feel a lot worse on days where I busy myself in these sleep slots. My baby, whose sensitivity and high demands require more hands on mothering than I’d expected, her needs also force me to lie down twice a day. An unwanted, frequently bemoaned, and yet vitally restorative practice. I do not believe in random events, and I thank my Creator for the silver lining.

I sense that silver linings are woven into the universe, and with time {sometimes many years}, and a softness of heart, we glimpse them. Closer to home even than rainbows and stars in the dark.

I grieve winter’s effect on me, but when spring arrives and we drive through the country and buy our first jonquils for the season, I swear I am happier than most. I get a relief+joy cocktail appropriate to the degree I have suffered.

Having a sensitive daughter is similar. She asks for physical contact all day and all night, and when I recoil from the intensity, I remind myself to lean in rather than pull away from her needs. People everywhere try to procure smiles from her, as she holds her face with porcelain solemnity. They would like to hold her but she dissents loudly and clams up, apart from with one person she knows well. Later in the warmth of our lounge we are privy to the hugest smiles, most adoring eyes, scrumptious cuddles and giggles. That leaning in to meet her needs for security? It is rewarded with the most exclusive view of her true person. The smile she gives me when she wakes from her nap to see me lying next to her? It’s like the golden sun coming out, not even behind a cloud.  

I’ve written about my closeness with Ben, and the chance I’ve had to learn to sew, the unexpected light in the pain and isolation. I love that I must always be fit and healthy because of my diet and exercise regime. The friends I’ve made through computer screens are intuitive, sensitive, compassionate and suffering women who I will love for all my days. Being awake while operated on has been my worst fear for a long time, but even that way of birthing came with a strange glow of empowerment after surviving the ordeal. I didn’t realise till Aurelia was born that having a tiny baby, while complicating things immensely prenatally, also meant that she would be my tiny baby for a lot longer than usual, and it delights me.

But there was one sizable cloud that didn’t appear to have a silver lining. I have long wondered what the point of my education in music and ballet was, once my body brought it to a close. The hours and years of dedication seemed to be a snapped branch. Did it have a place in my life beyond a wistful memory?

Only years later do I see that without the richness the arts bring me daily, I would be even more prone to despair. Sustaining my mind in a long illness; this is an immense value. I don’t want to end my life so much when I have danced around the lounge to Tchaicovsky to Aurelia’s delight, when I have listened to a composer’s representation of all the emotions on the human spectrum and felt understood, seen myself in the characters I read of, been transported in these books to harder eras, and breathed in perspective. If education’s purpose is to enable us to live a rich, abundant life, then that richness is beneficial all the more when we move into a barren place. That richness is sustaining life. Susan Shaeffer Macauley shared in her book this quote: “Education is a matter of the spirit.”

I know this now.

I want to get up even though I hurt, and smell the ocean again, and create a garment, and read another poem, and hug my scrumptious baby, and eat more cake. I think that there is an iridescent lining attached to each crushing cloud.

“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”

Henri Matisse

muttering in public

Today I was sitting in the car with Wolfgang my pup, our windows all the way down to prevent us from melting. I saw a six foot man with a protruding tummy coming down the street. He was wearing a polo shirt tucked thoroughly into faded navy track pants. The trackpants were pulled almost up to his chest, with the cords hanging out. I could see that he was talking to himself, and as he passed my window I caught what he was saying.

“My disability.”

Then there was silence. A few seconds later,

“My disability.”

Silence.

I just sat there feeling stunned and sad. I wished he had been singing to himself, or muttering about the beautiful weather – but he was pondering his and society’s perception of himself. I wanted to go and tell him that he was great just as he was, that he didn’t need to sweat it. I wished he didn’t even know he had a disability, that he could accept himself without a label.

I found it hard to forget him, hard to see him so internally disturbed by this view of himself. Then it was dawned on me that I was just like him. In my head, a hundred times a day I mutter,

“My disability.”

I say it when I wake up and face the day at home, and when I get weak cleaning the bathroom, when someone asks me what I do, and when I send another message saying ‘no’ or ‘less’.

I’m painfully acutely aware that I am abnormal, and that people aren’t into abnormal. I absolutely dread that moment of discovery in conversation: that I am disabled.

I wished most for the man not that he was able bodied {I do wish that too}, but that he could walk down the street unconcerned by difference or disability. I just wanted him to embrace being him without all the fear. I wish that for myself. I see all the ‘can'ts’ and ‘no longers’ and ‘abnormals’ and the thought that my life is less valuable than another’s is like a load of lead. Just imagine if the whole motley bunch of us mostly ailed humans stopped adding the requirement of seeming ‘normal’ and simulating ‘ideal’ to our diverse issues.

I think if I lived within the boundaries which allow me to function somewhat pain free, and let go of all the “Help, I don’t have a career!  Help, I’m a social failure!  Help, people must judge me because I can’t do things!” I’d stand a chance at less misery, more joy, more living. I want to live the life that I lead at peace with the path I am on. Enough with the muttering, more of the appreciating, loving, giving and receiving grace.   

words for wednesday {page 13, are we friends?}

The trouble with me is that I fight CFS. We're always talking about fighting and battling illnesses, particularly cancer, because we want to come out on top.
But with this one, the more you deny 'it' what it wants, the more it eats you up. The harder you fight, the longer the battle will be. In the first year or two, I fought it passionately by going to university despite the pain. But it won, of course. Now, I fight it on the home front.

It says, “Ok, I know it’s only mid morning, but you are off to sleepy land now.”

I refuse, keep doing what I am doing, eat something, drink something, beg it to give me a break and let me stay awake. I even whip out the tears, as a last resort. But it wins, and soon I am nodding off to sleep with my quilt, at 10.30 am.

The other perspective I could take is that ‘it’s’ not so much my enemy but a faithful spy who knows the inner workings of my body. When it commands a rest, it’s doing so because this is what I need to someday regain my health. I want to push it away and annihilate it for stopping me from doing so many things that my heart loves. But perhaps it’s not my enemy after all, perhaps if I fought less we could get along, become a team and make some more progress?

After writing this, I found this - I am still deciding.

“Discovery consists not in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes.”

Marcel Proust

“Happiness can exist only in acceptance.”

George Orwell

“Hope itself is like a star - not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity, and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.” 

Charles H. Spurgeon

the second step, again

Going downhill after four months of giddyingly good health is not what I would call fun. But neither is it shocking, or acutely devastating {just moderately}. I actually thought my reaction would be more one of catastrophic depression, because I was having such a wonderful time feeling well, and was wondering if I had an addiction to it. But here’s the thing: I feel kind of normal again.

I know this life. This has been my norm, my familiar, my staple for the last few years. I can slot back into this old groove, as challenging as it is. And now I realise, I have adjusted to being unwell and it happened without me even realising.

It was strange feeling so well. I had to pinch myself, to know if it was true. I didn’t feel like me at first.  It was all so surreal, so sparkly. I would burst into tears if I thought about it too much because it was so overwhelmingly ridiculous to feel like that.  And with it came lots of adjustments for me, and for Ben. What to do, if I did get well? I felt this huge responsibility; now you have health, you need to do something really worthwhile. But I had no idea what because I have changed so much. Our home life was different, our housework roles were changing, our social life was changing, our dates were changing – and even when change is beautiful and exciting, you don’t necessarily feel secure. It’s like when you’ve just met someone you really like, and you are in this crazy hyped state of excitement whenever you hear from them, touch them {even accidentally}, talk to them...but it’s not like the stable, comforting closeness of being in a committed relationship with them and knowing them deeply and intimately. Not that being sick is like being in a committed relationship {although I must say, chronic illness is VERY committed to it’s victims}, but that change makes you feel a little uncertain, and tips you out of the groove for a while. 

If most of the things that come with being unwell are nasty, at least there are a couple of pros. One is the comedy of my brain. Most days at the moment we get some serious laughs from the things that my foggy brain verbalises, particularly at night in bed when it’s at its finest. It was a bit boring when I could say what I meant first time. 

And then there is lying on the couch with my dog. It was so odd seeing him lie on the couch while I was up and about, and there is something very precious about his cuddles and his loyalty. Other perks include getting to drink more cups of tea, and....I actually can’t think of anymore pros right now, but the point is, when you find yourself on the second step of the staircase, after having been near the top, at the very least you have been there before and it’s not new and it’s not scary.

And you know that it is possible to be well, and you know that you were loved and comforted last time you were unwell and feeling like a complete mess, so you settle down to hope and wait. 

in his shoes

What is it like to marry a sick girl?

This is the journey that Ben has undertaken with me, every battle I’ve been fighting has been fought with him, and so in some ways we are both ‘sick’ because we both share in it absolutely. We vowed to love each other on the bad days, and that promise has been tested every week! He sacrifices so much in his love for me – he gives to me even though he won’t receive as much back. He could have waited for a girl who had a job, could cook him an evening meal, and always had energy for exploring life. 

It’s beautiful when love is less about self and more about giving. That’s the kind of love that lasts beyond the first giddying weeks into the decades of life, the kind of love that has sustained those amazing wrinkled couples holding hands as they hobble along at eighty. Ben inspires me. Real love is gritty, tough, and sacrificial – but it’s also lasting and deep.

What were your fears about committing to someone chronically ill, and what made you go ahead anyway?

Yes, my fears where exactly that. Could I commit to Dee for the rest of my life even if that meant I was committing to caring for someone very sick for the rest of my life? I knew enough about chronic fatigue at that point to know that Dee may never get better. She may get worse. Could I be there for her and care for her every day? Could I accept a very different life to what I had imagined my adult life to look like? I knew if the answer to those questions was “No,” then I could not in good conscience marry Dee. But I love her. I can’t tell you exactly how it happened but about three or four months before we got engaged those fears fell away and the answer to all my questions was a relieved “Yes”. I knew it might not be easy but I loved Dee and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, regardless of what that meant. A lot of people might face struggles like this later on in life and marriage. I think we were blessed to face them before. It was a proving ground. We knew what we were in for and we wanted to commit to each other all the same. There is an amazing amount of security and comfort in that fact.

What has been the hardest/most frustrating aspect to cope with?

When we’re both down. That is definitely the hardest time. It’s very hard to care for or cheer someone up when life has got you pretty down as well.

What have you learnt through this journey?

Lots – lots about myself, about priorities, and learning to love others. One of the big things though, one that has helped us manage through this difficult time is this: You have options. You can make changes. Your life doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s. You just have to have the courage to live a life that actually works for you rather than struggle to meet some ideal that society places on you.

How can your friends best support you as a carer and partner?

I think by accommodating us. Our life does look very different out of necessity. Things that everyone else considers normal or routine are a stretch for us or downright impossible. For someone to ask how they could make coming over or catching up easier means a lot. When people get the message that we can’t come over regularly or be somewhere every week it is very encouraging and a bit of a relief to be honest.

Are there any positives?

Absolutely. Like I’ve said I’ve learnt lots and we’ve learnt lots about each other too through this. We’ve seen the whole spectrum and I know what makes Dee tick, what helps, what doesn’t. We’ve grown both individually and closer together. I can say with absolute certainty that our marriage would not be as strong were it not for this.

We have also been able of laugh and have fun even when times are hard.

How does the unknown future of her health make you feel?

Honestly I don’t think about it. In one way everything is unknown so Dee's health is no more unknown than anything else. I could get hit by a bus, become a paraplegic, lose my job, or lose my sight and Dee would stick by me, I know. Life is unknown but God is sovereign.

Would you do it again, knowing how challenging it is?

 Several times over.

Ben is nearly finished his Radiography degree – he looks forward to working in a hospital next year and saying goodbye to lectures and essays. When he’s not studying or working, he likes relax with his wife and dog, curl up with some Tolkien, or cook up a storm in the kitchen. 

the night-side of life

The world of illness is a different world. It is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship...Sooner or later each one of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

Susan Sontag

I read that quote in a book, and I agreed for the most part. I knew that this woman had felt that encompassing feeling of illness, which seems to leave you sitting on a park bench by yourself. Sometimes walking down the street I look at the people who pass by me, and I feel that I am different. A naive thought, considering that I have no idea of their health or suffering – but there is something about losing your physical strength which makes you feel different from human beings who have it. Being sick changes everything, or so it feels to me.

I think about my peers. Who voluntarily wake up the morning after with a hang over. I feel angry that they who have health would choose to intoxicate themselves for their own pleasure, and spend time recovering in bed, feeling ill - what a waste, I think, and I wish I could swap with them. “Here, you take my wretched body and abuse it if you wish, but yours is in good condition and I could use it much better than you.” I would do nearly anything to feel well. I wake up, feeling that I’ve been thoroughly inebriated, after an early night, and a conservative cup of peppermint tea. And if I have a piece of cake and stay up till 10pm, the pain is even worse.

Being sick has changed most things, most of the big things. What I do, what I think, who I relate to, what my dreams are.

Often I focus on the limitations of being unwell. I can’t go to university, I can’t go out at night, I can’t keep our house as clean as I’d like, I can’t help other people much, I can’t eat whatever I like, I can’t work, I can’t go out often, I can’t be superwoman, I can’t have a career, I can’t have a baby......

And all those ‘can’ts’ escalate into one big fat, “I can’t bare this life anymore.” Which is quite a depressed thing to say, really.

I do agree with that quote by Susan, that the world of illness is a different world. It’s a different world to the one I used to live in, but a lot of the most beautiful parts of the old world are in the new.

 Looking back over my life, the special times have not been when I was achieving something great, it’s been when I was feeling something great. I thought getting my AmusA would would be fufilling, but by the next day it was common, unsatisfying. I thought the success of doing well in my finals at school would feel great, but it was over so fast – the thrill lasts about 30 minutes. Getting into this school, that university, that final....Those physical/mental accomplishments just haven’t compared to the times I’ve felt alive, and enjoyed the sensations and emotions that come with humanity. I may not be able to enjoy getting good grades at uni, getting a job as a flautist, entertaining dinner guests or earning money, but I am alive and I can fully appreciate laughter, empathy, relief, satisfaction, creativity, inspiration, love, relationships.

The best times have been suffocating with laughter, squealing with excitement, feeling overwhelmed with love, crying with joy, playing music with emotion, feeling the coldness on my face on a winter’s day, smelling fresh bread, snuggling under the doona, kissing for the first time, embracing a friend, reading an exhilarating book. The simple things, the unforgettable precious things which can’t be put on a resume or hung on the wall.

I’m not deprived of being a human being. And while each day has become more onerous, and more painful, I’ve started to enjoy the simplicity of life instead of racing around doing ‘big’ things.

blog envy

Today I had an attack of blog envy. I was browsing one of those beautiful blogs – you know, the ones where the writer designs her own page, and takes scrumptiously creative photos, and writes inspiring words. She is stunning too, of course. I looked at my own frumpy page, my drab posts, my lack of comments...and I thought about how I didn’t own a camera or have the faintest idea about HTML. Suddenly I didn’t feel inspired by her page anymore, I felt flat and miserable.

And then I hurried off to the gym, where I had to stand right in front of the mirror because of my late arrival. I couldn’t avoid that life size picture of me right before my eyes. I noticed my fringe which was kinky from sweat, and these two hideous pimples which decided that my arm would be a nice place to bloom, bold magenta, for all to see...and then I glanced around the room and glimpsed this girl, this perfect girl. She wasn’t shaking and red with exertion; she just looked fresh and lovely. I looked back at me, and that horrible, slimy, Envy stared me back in the face. 

The envious person grows lean with the fatness of their neighbour - Socrates

So I plodded home and felt blah. If only I had the energy so-and-so has, if only I didn’t have to stay at home all day, if only it hadn’t been me...if only I was more talented and capable...if only we could afford this...if only....if.....if......

if only I wasn’t so envious I might stand a chance at joy.

I was thinking about ways to pry Envy off me, before he strangles me. I thought, well, I could just lock myself away inside my house, never look at blogs, never look at shops or other women....buy a blind fold and super-glue it on.

 But life is meant to be lived, not avoided.

I could choose to live life appreciative and thankful for all the blessings I have – focus so fully on what I am grateful for, that I begin to be thankful for other people’s good fortune too.

picture source

So here’s a snippet from my ‘thankful for’ list:

Life itself, and fresh new days

Ben, who cherishes me

My family, who ‘get’ me and my long illness

The caring doctors, who bulkbill me and try hard to fix me

Our church, which is a place of love and God-focus

Dear friends, who lift my spirits and give me the giggles

Our sweet flat with its red door and balcony

My pure silver flute

The fast metabolism I inherited

My naughty fluffy rabbit

My ability to walk, talk, think, dance, laugh, cry!

Knowing that this life isn’t all there is

My ‘well’ hours and days

The arts – how rich they make my life

Books, beautiful books – and the ability to read

This peaceful country

The invention of chocolate (particularly 85% Lindt) and antidepressants...

Once I began writing my list, I couldn’t stop. There was far too much to record. I started feeling overwhelmed. And ashamed – for being such a selfish brat as to overlook my privileged and beautiful life. Ashamed of ignoring my blessings, and wanting to steal someone else’s.

It’s amazing how much happier I felt once I’d re-focussed; stopped comparing, stopped wanting and self-pitying. Next time Envy comes, I’ll slap the list in his face.

I am so blessed by a generous God.

hot and bothered

“Summer is my favourite season.” 

I used to say that, whenever such topics arose in conversation. We had a pool in the backyard for the scorching days, we were free to do as we liked for weeks on end, my birthday and Christmas fell during this period, water melon was regularly served, dresses and shorts could be worn....and I could live a goose-bump, chilblain free life. Nice.

Now I shudder when I hear people say how much they love the hot weather. I look at them blankly. Usually I am capable of making at least some small talk, and surely ‘the weather’ is the most elementary of topics - but their statement fills me with strong emotions. I told the lady in the shop yesterday that I didn’t like hot weather, and she gave me an odd look because she can’t think of anything better. Another lady asked me if I was going to beach. Not the beach, but feet in a bucket at home, if that counts. I went on Facebook, and saw that an acquaintance had written, “37 degrees today, bring it on summer.” And that status update had been liked by numerous personages. But all I can think is, what is to love about lying in a dark room beneath a fan?

I used to practice my 3 hour quota on a 38 degree day, taking dips in the pool between sessions...before CFS moved in. Today, I picked up my flute, determined to play. My flute felt a lot heaver than pure silver – I blew one wispy low G, felt my head sway and leaned back on the couch. I put it away in its case, marked with my sweaty finger prints. Still light headed, I get up thinking that I should just clear some things away in the kitchen. I wonder what my feet have been filled with. They are bulging, veins exploding – in shades of alien green, purple, and cherry red. I walk slowly towards the kitchen (a very short stroll in a one bedroom flat), as though I am 3x my weight and feel sorry for the contestants on Biggest Loser. Once there, I feel like I need to rest – my body is lethargic, swaying and weak. I want to lie on the cold tiles and cry. Sob, because I am feeling so ill, and there is no relief. There is no air conditioner. We can’t drive anywhere because the car is always 10 degrees hotter than the house. There is no ice cream – sugar gives me an enflamed throat. There is nothing to fill the hours with, because I’m too sick to stick at anything for more than a few minutes. I watch some Anne of Green Gables, but have to stop because my headache is blurring up my vision. I check the weather, for the 11^th time today. The cool change has not been brought forward, and tomorrow is forecast to be 37 degrees. It will be precisely 6 hours until the sun sets and there comes some minor relief in temperature.  I could fit in the fridge if we took the shelves out. I could have a cold bath if I could be bothered running it. But I’ve lost my motivation, and I’m too tired to search for it.

 I wish I’d kept my eye on the weather forecast this week. I had no idea we were headed for a hot spell. I had planned to go to an MSO concert with Ben, practice my flute and clean the house. It’s so odd that the weather can cause me to go from reasonably well, to reasonably ill within a few hours – and completely curtail my plans. I think it shakes me up because it comes down to the core issue I struggle with:

I’m not in control.

I don’t get to decide the weather for Melbourne. I don’t even get to vote for when the hot days fall. It’s totally out of my hands.

 So it’s really the perfect opportunity for me to practice letting go of my plans and making the most of what has actually happened. Three years of illness...you would imagine that I would have learnt to let go of my agenda, and embrace the life I do have. But I seem to need a regular crash course. I forget so quickly. So here we go for the hundredth time: today has not gone to plan, but it’s a day so I’m going to value it.  

 Picture curtesy of pinterest.com

ten tips for dumping stress

We like ‘before and afters’. We like it when the after is better than the before. Like when that pimply, unruly maned girl is transformed into a sleek haired, white teethed, glossy lipped wonder. “That’s better”, we sigh as we gladly rest our eyes on the appealing yet unnatural sigh before us. Uniqueness has been whisked away, and exchanged for a tantalising package of ‘perfect’.  Ahhh. 

Here are ten commandments I held to, before.

• 1. Thou shalt be perfect or at least try to be.
• 2. Thou shalt try to be all things to all people.
• 3. Thou shalt not leave things undone that ought to be done.
• 4. Thou shalt do as much as possible.
• 5. Thou shalt always say "YES".
• 6. Thou shalt not schedule time for thyself as this is lazy.
• 7. Thou shalt always strive to work harder at school and flute.
• 8. Thou shalt be vivacious, tidy, elegant and attractive at all times.
• 9. Thou shalt feel guilty if standards are lowered 
• 10. Thou shalt not be weak in anyway 

I realise now that I tried to follow these commandments to the letter for a few too many years. I am quite attracted to them. They seem to promise wonderful things. I see elegant people, I see helpful people, I see hard workers and want to be all those things, all the time, no exceptions. Perfectionism. Workaholism. I slip into these commands with ease, and ignore their folly and impracticality. But I have had to snip them up and chuck them in the bin because they are no match for me physically or emotionally. It’s not a healthy relationship, and I’ve cut ties...but the attraction remains, and I have to fight it every single day. 

I found the following on a chronic fatigue syndrome site and it was love at first sight. I suggest printing off the following rules and blu-tacking them up in the toilet so that you read them a few times each day:

Ten Commandments For Reducing Stress

• 1. Thou shalt not be perfect or try to be.
• 2. Thou shalt not try to be all things to all people.
• 3. Thou shalt leave things undone that ought to be done.
• 4. Thou shalt not spread thyself too thin.
• 5. Thou shalt learn to say "NO".
• 6. Thou shalt schedule time for thyself, and for thy supporting network.
• 7. Thou shalt switch off and do nothing regularly.
• 8. Thou shalt be boring, untidy, inelegant and unattractive at times.
• 9. Thou shalt not even feel guilty.

10. Thou shalt not be thine own worst enemy, but thine own best friend.

 

This doesn’t rule out working hard, being dependable, striving towards something....it just enforces a rational, realistic and healthy approach to life.

I have not got these commandments sussed. Yet. I still think that having a piece of chocolate by myself is un- self-controlled, I still say ‘yes’ to all kinds of things which stress me out, I still agonise over leaving the house with bad hair or outfit, I still apologise for being blah to people because I’m tired, and I still feel guilty for relaxing some days....But I struggle and fight, and consciously decide to do what I know to be right. And I imagine that if you ask me in a decade how I am going with these new life rules, I will still be struggling against my natural desires – but hopefully, I will be much more relaxed and dare I say it... healthy.

I think this ‘after’ is better, by far.

Serenity

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change...

On the desk of my doctor there is a poster blu-tacked up, facing the patients. It really hit me the first time that I read it.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.  

 I was sitting there feeling far from serene; there was something wrong with me and it was interrupting life dramatically. I thought it was a nice idea to suggest serenity at the doctors, but really, I could go a bit of sympathy right now.  Don’t tell me to just get over it just like that! The line about “courage to change the things I can” was fine with me – obviously that was why I was at the doctors, to get better ASAP and do anything to bring about that end.  

I now realise that it never was suggesting me to ‘get over it’ or act as though being sick isn’t traumatic and upsetting. It was saying that while I am doing all that doctor’s suggest to improve and change my health, there is still the fact that right now I am sick – and that isn’t ultimately in my control. I am not conceding defeat, or bottling up the many sad emotions...I’m learning (incredibly slowly) to calmly trust that this is happening for a good reason - and with that belief comes peace. Peace that it doesn’t matter if I’m not ‘succeeding’, or studying at uni, or going out with friends, or doing much housework. It’s ok! Because I’d rather trust God and learn patience, serenity, compassion, understanding and numerous other lessons, than fight this whole experience and come out of it bitter and angry. I’m going to jump for joy (for hours and hours) when I am fully well, but until that day, I am striving to accept what has happened and make the most of it.