Bleh
I hate being sick. And somehow it's worse when I'm not *really*sick - no high fever, not utterly incapacitated, so I don't have any excuse for not just shaking it off and getting to work. Just a sore throat, a cough, and fatigue. It's not a big deal. I should just get up out of this chair and go load my car, so I can head over to my house-to-be and get to painting.
I especially hate it when being physically blah makes me feel all emotionally sick and depressed. My life is perfect. I have a marvelous job. I have a wonderful boyfriend, and I'm moving in with him. Into a big house, with a beautiful kitchen and a queen-sized bed. I have absolutely no reason to feel all mopey and miserable. No reason to feel like a puppy that's been kicked, like the world is a horrible, unfair place and no matter how hard I try I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever fit in, never feel the kind of welcome and acceptance that my friends all talk about when they're with each other. No reason to look at myself in the mirror and burst into tears or try to break it, no reason to weigh myself ten times a day or have wistful thoughts about how nice and easy bulimia sounds.
I have no idea why this is happening. It feels like there's a wire crossed in my head, triggering an utterly inappropriate response that I'm unable to override. Like a psychic cold. I sit here and ride out both the waves of fever and the waves of misery, the coughing fits and the episodes of conviction that tell me I need to crawl into a shell and never go to a con or gathering again.
I'll survive both the cold and the mopies, I know. They're temporary things, and the only trick is not doing anything drastic while I'm waiting for them to run their courses and be gone.
I do wish they made Celestial Seasonings Soothing Mind Drops, though. It would make the whole thing easier....
I especially hate it when being physically blah makes me feel all emotionally sick and depressed. My life is perfect. I have a marvelous job. I have a wonderful boyfriend, and I'm moving in with him. Into a big house, with a beautiful kitchen and a queen-sized bed. I have absolutely no reason to feel all mopey and miserable. No reason to feel like a puppy that's been kicked, like the world is a horrible, unfair place and no matter how hard I try I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever fit in, never feel the kind of welcome and acceptance that my friends all talk about when they're with each other. No reason to look at myself in the mirror and burst into tears or try to break it, no reason to weigh myself ten times a day or have wistful thoughts about how nice and easy bulimia sounds.
I have no idea why this is happening. It feels like there's a wire crossed in my head, triggering an utterly inappropriate response that I'm unable to override. Like a psychic cold. I sit here and ride out both the waves of fever and the waves of misery, the coughing fits and the episodes of conviction that tell me I need to crawl into a shell and never go to a con or gathering again.
I'll survive both the cold and the mopies, I know. They're temporary things, and the only trick is not doing anything drastic while I'm waiting for them to run their courses and be gone.
I do wish they made Celestial Seasonings Soothing Mind Drops, though. It would make the whole thing easier....