0 comment Friday, May 30, 2014 | admin
Perfect Languishment couch, this. I would certainly invest, if I had the dosh. It may amuse that, as "butch" as I've been all my life working primarily in male-dominated industry and strong as a Shire Horse, I have a deep love of frough-frough. I'd deck my house out in antique-y stuff and live in a wee, rose-bedecked cottage, using a wood cookstove and drinking tea out of real china if I ever won the lottery.
Languishment has been a right bugger this week and even though I've had decent sleep for the first time in yonks last night, I'm still feeling like hell. I've been frustrated and annoyed with myself for my total inability to communicate, let alone do anything. A phone call yesterday which required me to be able to THINK was completely scuppered. I probably sounded like I was on something - which is problematic if you're talking to the Mental Health unit, the last people on the planet I need to suspect there is Something Wrong With Me. I've a friend whose Languishment gets so severe she's been arrested in town for drunk and disorderly because she literally lolled in her wheekchair, incapable of speech. She's not drunk, she's exhausted. It's scary it can get that bad for some people, but it does. "Just tired" doesn't even describe it, but as the Carers UK lady told me when she came round "If they can't see it, you don't have it. Your limbs need to be bent like a hawthorn before they believe you've got arthritis, and you need to be covered in a head-to-foot rash before they believe there's anything wrong with you from a syndrome." The fact I can hold a huge dog like mine to keep her from jumping is also apparently proof that there's not that much wrong with me - hello, former bodybuilder, built like an ox beneath the fat, y0. I'm not going to go totally frail; but the rate of body-fail I've suffered through is equivalent to the average person landing in a wheelchair they can never leave. It's all relative - but relative is difficult to explain unless you're there, so...yeah, round and round and round it goes, eh?
I was going to spend a good hour or two beating hell out of myself for not being able to clean or cook decent meals or do even a sink of dishes today - the obligatory "Just do it, no matter how much it hurts" thing. However, memory prevailed - I had a sales event, the first one of the year, in which I had to prepare for, followed rapidly after by half-term. Yeah, duh, woman, you're going to have an episode after that. At least a week's recovery required - and I didn't really get it, as I've had important appointments and calls and business things happening which I've had to try and stay on top of - and haven't done a particularly good job of it, to be truthful.
So I've closed one of my internet shops down until I can focus. The second one doesn't seem to be working at the moment anyway - and I'm going to be getting some help with that because I am severely non-tech and right now my brain isn't working at capacity. I burned energy I didn't really have for a huge stocking-up shop on Thursday. It went against my principles to shop Tescos, but at the least I now have a full-up freezer and all sorts of pantry goods. I will get bills paid on Monday and next week I can try and beat the house into some semblance of shape, get some errands run so I can make the next batches of soap, focus my brain a little bit better and grab the even-more-necessary-now-than-before powernaps I need to be able to get through the second portion of the day.
I'm getting slightly better at not forcing myself to just persevere. It's sort of getting easier, but I admit I still don't deal particularly well with the expectations of others - I am still smarting under the caustic remarks of the letting agency about my "wreck" of a house. I'm angry and frustrated that even putting a bloody handrail in the house has taken nearly a month before I received permission for it to be installed. It pisses me off that I'm advised to "hide the dog" if anyone comes round to ask about my needs for mobility aids because the assumption is if I can exercise and hold an animal that large, I obviously don't need any help. Assumptions; man I can't escape them, can I? If it's not my house or disability, it's my son. If not my son, it's something else. I'd love it if I could keep my house spotless, but I can't. I would be over the moon if I had the funding to attend the ball tonight; masked balls which I started to make happen in the UK, so I'd have something to attend when I had the dosh and energy - but I don't. It would be awesome if my son didn't chatter to everyone he sees and could read the body language of people he's starting to piss off so I don't have to step in and apologise, but he doesn't. It would be perfectly brilliant if I could stand for longer than ten minutes, type without breaks for longer than 15, and not have every joint swell up in agony so I could actually do this exercise thing everyone seems to think will solve all my problems, because of course the whole reason I'm ill is because I'm a fat chick; but it isn't. I guess to add to the "If I win the lotto I want a cottage" I should also add "and I want it to be semi-rural, because I want to be left the hell alone for once." Man, that would be awesome.
So on the note of a somewhat less-than-chipper post, let it be known I DID get the dishes today, and that was something. Sprog and I put some lemon slices in his flower beds to keep the cats out, and he discovered he likes the smell of lemons, so I have just squeezed several lemons and limes to make homemade lemonade, thrown a few sprigs of mint in, and that is something more. I've got some garden peas I bought from the veg/fruit surplus shop and we're going to shell those today and eat them right out the pod, which is my favourite way to eat the things, and seems to be sprog's as well (result!). Little things sometimes do indeed rock.
But not every day is a good day, and the rant has done me some good.
Off to do stuff.
Languishment has been a right bugger this week and even though I've had decent sleep for the first time in yonks last night, I'm still feeling like hell. I've been frustrated and annoyed with myself for my total inability to communicate, let alone do anything. A phone call yesterday which required me to be able to THINK was completely scuppered. I probably sounded like I was on something - which is problematic if you're talking to the Mental Health unit, the last people on the planet I need to suspect there is Something Wrong With Me. I've a friend whose Languishment gets so severe she's been arrested in town for drunk and disorderly because she literally lolled in her wheekchair, incapable of speech. She's not drunk, she's exhausted. It's scary it can get that bad for some people, but it does. "Just tired" doesn't even describe it, but as the Carers UK lady told me when she came round "If they can't see it, you don't have it. Your limbs need to be bent like a hawthorn before they believe you've got arthritis, and you need to be covered in a head-to-foot rash before they believe there's anything wrong with you from a syndrome." The fact I can hold a huge dog like mine to keep her from jumping is also apparently proof that there's not that much wrong with me - hello, former bodybuilder, built like an ox beneath the fat, y0. I'm not going to go totally frail; but the rate of body-fail I've suffered through is equivalent to the average person landing in a wheelchair they can never leave. It's all relative - but relative is difficult to explain unless you're there, so...yeah, round and round and round it goes, eh?
I was going to spend a good hour or two beating hell out of myself for not being able to clean or cook decent meals or do even a sink of dishes today - the obligatory "Just do it, no matter how much it hurts" thing. However, memory prevailed - I had a sales event, the first one of the year, in which I had to prepare for, followed rapidly after by half-term. Yeah, duh, woman, you're going to have an episode after that. At least a week's recovery required - and I didn't really get it, as I've had important appointments and calls and business things happening which I've had to try and stay on top of - and haven't done a particularly good job of it, to be truthful.
So I've closed one of my internet shops down until I can focus. The second one doesn't seem to be working at the moment anyway - and I'm going to be getting some help with that because I am severely non-tech and right now my brain isn't working at capacity. I burned energy I didn't really have for a huge stocking-up shop on Thursday. It went against my principles to shop Tescos, but at the least I now have a full-up freezer and all sorts of pantry goods. I will get bills paid on Monday and next week I can try and beat the house into some semblance of shape, get some errands run so I can make the next batches of soap, focus my brain a little bit better and grab the even-more-necessary-now-than-before powernaps I need to be able to get through the second portion of the day.
I'm getting slightly better at not forcing myself to just persevere. It's sort of getting easier, but I admit I still don't deal particularly well with the expectations of others - I am still smarting under the caustic remarks of the letting agency about my "wreck" of a house. I'm angry and frustrated that even putting a bloody handrail in the house has taken nearly a month before I received permission for it to be installed. It pisses me off that I'm advised to "hide the dog" if anyone comes round to ask about my needs for mobility aids because the assumption is if I can exercise and hold an animal that large, I obviously don't need any help. Assumptions; man I can't escape them, can I? If it's not my house or disability, it's my son. If not my son, it's something else. I'd love it if I could keep my house spotless, but I can't. I would be over the moon if I had the funding to attend the ball tonight; masked balls which I started to make happen in the UK, so I'd have something to attend when I had the dosh and energy - but I don't. It would be awesome if my son didn't chatter to everyone he sees and could read the body language of people he's starting to piss off so I don't have to step in and apologise, but he doesn't. It would be perfectly brilliant if I could stand for longer than ten minutes, type without breaks for longer than 15, and not have every joint swell up in agony so I could actually do this exercise thing everyone seems to think will solve all my problems, because of course the whole reason I'm ill is because I'm a fat chick; but it isn't. I guess to add to the "If I win the lotto I want a cottage" I should also add "and I want it to be semi-rural, because I want to be left the hell alone for once." Man, that would be awesome.
So on the note of a somewhat less-than-chipper post, let it be known I DID get the dishes today, and that was something. Sprog and I put some lemon slices in his flower beds to keep the cats out, and he discovered he likes the smell of lemons, so I have just squeezed several lemons and limes to make homemade lemonade, thrown a few sprigs of mint in, and that is something more. I've got some garden peas I bought from the veg/fruit surplus shop and we're going to shell those today and eat them right out the pod, which is my favourite way to eat the things, and seems to be sprog's as well (result!). Little things sometimes do indeed rock.
But not every day is a good day, and the rant has done me some good.
Off to do stuff.
Labels: Languishment