Please bear with me while I wallow in a pool a self-pity.
Yesterday, I woke up with much more dizziness than usual, compliments of my now four-year-old brain injury. I waited for it to spin down a bit, it didn’t. And so I was faced with a choice I have become immensely sick of: stay home and do nothing or get up and try to make something of the day. Now, this might seem like a no brainer (ho, ho, ho) but it’s not at all. There is no clear choice to be made.
Staying home means that I will most likely feel better faster, possibly even in time to make something of the day. Or not.
Getting up means that I will most likely feel worse, possibly even in time to simply miss the whole day anyway. Or not.
Yesterday, turned out to be the latter, without the “or not” part. I arrived at my freelance gig feeling terrible, soldiered through what had to be done, then went home and went to bed until 7:00 PM or 8:00, watched a bit of TV, then went back to bed.
And in this tale lies the very crux of my condition: damned if I do and damned if I don’t. And I am sick of it. Every day, even when I’m feeling okay, I struggle with how much living to do, because it seems like the more I try to get of life, the more it takes out of me.
I confess, I’ve been busy these last few weeks – last few months, really – trying to work more, trying to write more songs, trying to go out a bit more, and overall, I’ve done surprisingly well. But lest I start to think I’m out of danger, yesterday happens. And today, for that matter. Tomorrow, I should be back to my normal level of misery.
And it will start all over again.