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lizblackdog Dec. 2nd, 2010 12:07 pm)
lizblackdog Dec. 2nd, 2010 12:07 pm)So I've been on the levothyroxine eleven days. It is making a difference. The amusing part about that is that it's actually making my life worse; a perfect and hilarious proof that hope is a vicious bitch that gives no quarter and allows no mercy. Give me the gentle rest of despair any day; I am not fucking kidding.
This is how it goes. My brain and body have begun to wake up. It's just enough to make me want to do things, to make me restless and twitchy and unable to sleep, but - this is the fun part - there isn't the energy there to actually do anything. I've tried. I've taken the dogs for brief park romps twice this week; the first time knocked me flat for two days. The second time was last night and I woke up this morning nearly suicidal. I've begun slowly chipping away at the accumulation of kitchenfilth. Hell, I'm even attempting laundry today, which is a major triumph of hope over experience, but it's necessary and the snow's cut me off from being able to beg Mum to come and do it. In a way it's just as well; I don't need the fucking guilt trip that's the price for any help from Mum. I have enough of that already from my underexercised punchy barky dogs, my filthy flat and every other fucking obligation I've got hanging over me - the friends I'm letting down, the petsite I'm staff on, the art I haven't forgotten I promised to do for everyone. I can't do it yet; I really, honestly, truly can't. But I've improved enough to be frantically guilty and chewing-my-own-leg-off anxious about it, where the full-on deathtired didn't leave enough of me to care.
It doesn't help that all my muscles have apparently turned to butter. My back and my hip joints hurt like hell every time I'm upright for more than maybe two minutes; I can't mouse or type very long without my hands feeling like someone slammed them in a drawer and if I don't pee every ten minutes I'll leak every time I cough or fucking giggle. Of course I'm out of ibuprofen; right now the corner shop a quarter of a mile away might as well be on another continent.
The dogs need walked; I owe them another park romp and I'll feel guilty about wasting last night's glorious snowfall if I don't, but I'm not sure I have one in me. Either way, I think I'll go back to bed for the day once that's done. Fuck it all.
This is how it goes. My brain and body have begun to wake up. It's just enough to make me want to do things, to make me restless and twitchy and unable to sleep, but - this is the fun part - there isn't the energy there to actually do anything. I've tried. I've taken the dogs for brief park romps twice this week; the first time knocked me flat for two days. The second time was last night and I woke up this morning nearly suicidal. I've begun slowly chipping away at the accumulation of kitchenfilth. Hell, I'm even attempting laundry today, which is a major triumph of hope over experience, but it's necessary and the snow's cut me off from being able to beg Mum to come and do it. In a way it's just as well; I don't need the fucking guilt trip that's the price for any help from Mum. I have enough of that already from my underexercised punchy barky dogs, my filthy flat and every other fucking obligation I've got hanging over me - the friends I'm letting down, the petsite I'm staff on, the art I haven't forgotten I promised to do for everyone. I can't do it yet; I really, honestly, truly can't. But I've improved enough to be frantically guilty and chewing-my-own-leg-off anxious about it, where the full-on deathtired didn't leave enough of me to care.
It doesn't help that all my muscles have apparently turned to butter. My back and my hip joints hurt like hell every time I'm upright for more than maybe two minutes; I can't mouse or type very long without my hands feeling like someone slammed them in a drawer and if I don't pee every ten minutes I'll leak every time I cough or fucking giggle. Of course I'm out of ibuprofen; right now the corner shop a quarter of a mile away might as well be on another continent.
The dogs need walked; I owe them another park romp and I'll feel guilty about wasting last night's glorious snowfall if I don't, but I'm not sure I have one in me. Either way, I think I'll go back to bed for the day once that's done. Fuck it all.
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