I’ve whined a lot about being tired on this blog.
I hestitate to do it because everyone is too damn tired and there’s nothing more stressful about my life than yours. But somedays, the tired outweighs the creativity and so that’s what I do. Be tired.
And then I get nervous that maybe I’m too tired. Maybe it’s not tired. Maybe it’s the darkness of depression creeping back in. And then I shake my head to knock away the fear and push away even the lingering possibilities just in case my doubt can somehow manifest itself into chemical imbalance. I cannot go back there. I will not go back there.
So I pretend that I’m not so tired.
Over the last several weeks, it’s gotten harder to pretend.
I’ve started to require a nap almost daily. Sometimes at 10:30 in the morning.
I wake up tired, whether it’s from 8 hours in my bed or 3 hours on my couch.
And it’s not the tired that comes from lack of sleep. Or even the tired that comes from depression. It’s this new, muscle sapping tired that sits ontop of me and refuses to let me move the way I want to. I can hear myself pleading through a mist to just go, and I can’t. I just can’t.
And it’s more than the tired.
I wake up in the middle of the night and half of my body is tingling, that pins and needles of your limbs falling asleep except I can’t understand why my whole freaking half of my body would be “asleep”. The other day my left foot started to tingle while I was on the elliptical machine. This morning it happened again while I was sitting at my desk. I’d only been sitting for about 10 minutes and when I looked down, half my foot was purple.
My skin is dry and itchy. I haven’t felt like this since the last winter I spent in Iowa.
And my uterus is – well – let’s just say it’s not doing what it’s supposed to be. I don’t think it’s doing anything at all anymore, actually. And as much as I’d like to think it’s finally succumbed to my pleas to just go away – something tells me there might be more to it than that.
Something is not right.
I don’t know what. I’m afraid to say anything to anyone because it all sounds very ridiculous. I feel like I’ve already played my phantom illness card with the depression, and to call attention to anything else as ambiguous would put me over my limit.
And the anti-depressants were supposed to be The Answer.
I’m fixed now. I’m all better. I’m normal and whole and coping and stable and look just like you. I’m supposed to be OK, now.
But still, something is not right.
I don’t know what, but something.
And I’m tired of being tired.
I’m scared of the tingling.
So Wednesday morning I had three tubes of blood sucked from my arm. Thursday afternoon I’m going back to the doctor – a new name I’ve picked from a new list on an insurance web site. I’m preparing to go in with a list of symptoms about “tingles” and “sleepiness” and hoping that those words don’t sound as crazy to him as they do to me.
I’m hoping that something can make me normal.