Today was a rough day again. I slept eight hours last night, barely dragged myself out of bed, then slept another two hours. I got my nails fixed for an hour, slept another two hours and rested for two more until my only work meeting for the day.
My client, who has some chronic health issues too, said he wasn’t feeling great today and that he was impressed to see my bright and chipper attitude. Wanting to make him feel less alone, I told him that I’m going through a flare-up and that attitude was only possible because I had been saving my capacity for this and otherwise resting all day, to which he said, “you’re lucky, I wish I could rest.” I really wish that he could get more rest, and I understand the sentiment, but man, that comment stung, mostly because I felt that it sounded like I’d had and made a choice. But I don’t want to rest. I have so much stuff I want to do, even more stuff I should do, and am completely physically and mentally unable to do any of it. I have long moved past the point when I was able to will myself into doing stuff, when I could still strongarm my body into compliance. I don’t feel lucky.