I'm fine

It turns out that if I don't have legitimate, have-to-be-out-of-the-house-at-a-certain-time plans, that I will not really move all day. Well, I move. From my bed to the couch, maybe to the porch, and eventually back to my bed. I might eat something. Listen to a podcast, watch Netflix...read a book. But this extreme level of rest is what it takes for this introverted-extrovert to recover from interaction with the world.

On legitimate plan days, I paddle like crazy, trying to stay afloat. And on the surface, I am fine. I get up when I need to. I shower. I go to work. Sometimes I even wash the dishes. Most days I find humor in the absurdity of life. But in the depths of my soul, I'm cracked and calloused. Raw and steeled off. Vulnerable and hard as nails. All at once. 

It doesn't feel good. 

And I need a ridiculous amount of sleep and staring to make it through. 

Maybe this is normal for a 41-year-old woman who is drained by her job, recently got dumped and then had surgery to remove rogue endometrial tissue from her abdomen. I thought the two weeks I was forced to lie around and not lift anything over 10 lbs would be enough to heal me. It wasn't. 

I've sobbed at my therapist. I've sobbed at a random male friend and tried to make him hug me. I've sobbed at my 19-year-old cat in my bed on those days when I can't really move. I am only just starting to feel like I've hit a tipping point. That enough of the pain has been released that I can possibly feel whole again. Someday. 

This is not to say that I don't feel joy. I do. I spend time with my nephew and my heart swells. I watch terrible tv and drink wine with Meredith and I know who my people are. Even at work, when I'm being drained by the minutia, I feel comfort in the bonds. 

And maybe this is fine right now. This is what it looks like. I don't feel like I'm faking it. I'm engaging with the world when I can. And when I can't I do what I have to to replenish reserves. And if that looks like moving from bed to couch to porch, then so be it.