Committed, to what I haven’t decided. It’s all the rage, didn’t you know, you have to be committed now a days, not motivation. If you haven’t got the commitment then you will never get anywhere. I can see the point, but I’m not sure that being committed is the right thing for me. Lets get things straight first, I’m not talking about committal to a nut house. Although…
I’ve just finished reading One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, and if I thought for one moment that being locked away for my own good was going to be like that, then I think I might voluntarily sign up just for the break. Not sure about the EST, I can give that a miss, although there are times when I think a short zap would do me some good. Like today for instance.
I’m voluntarily bed bound. I know it’s shocking isn’t it. You wouldn’t think there was anyone that could possibly want to stay in bed and take a sicky unless they were ill. I remember that flu I had that made me hallucinate for three days. I couldn’t wait to get better and get out of bed. But yesterday afternoon my body just said, sod off. I haven’t got flu, not a virus, I’m not ill, not as such, I’m just missed off with the world. With no way of buggering off to the Bahamas, I decided that voluntary bed rest would be the next best thing.
It worked for a while, that is until Mark decided to come up and check on me. I know, even I was surprised that he would bother. However it wasn’t to see how I was! He asked, love his cotton socks, and then he lumber into bed and declared he needed to take half an hour, watching Rugby is an exhausting past time. Two hours later we both woke up, with the dog nestled between us. Small white fluffy dogs, the best contraception on the planet.
He did bring me tea and a sandwich when he got up, but he also refused to bring me cake when he woke me again at midnight.
I’ve slept; I dare not count the hours I’ve slept, but they do say that if you need it, your body will sleep until it’s ready to start again. This must be my run-in day. After all it’s a well known fact that once an engine has had major work done to it, you have to take it slow for a while to bed things in,
I had three days of duldrums, leading to yesterdays decision to take to my bed. Three days of looking at the building site I laughingly call home and three days of legal wrangles and visiting doctors to assess my injuries from a car accident in November. I’ve had three days of “has anyone got a shotgun and a shovel” moments, and after walking a mile in the rain to get to the doctors because the Sat nav told us to go the wrong way, I was not, as Victoria may have observed, amused.
I haven’t been idle during my, I can’t do anything time, in fact in my eyes I’ve done quite a lot. It seems that being miserable and dare I say it, depressed, (I’m not harry carry bound I promise) tends to mean giving up on life. One of the main symptoms of the awful condition being a lack of motivation and energy. My energy has been spent, I’ve used every Joule, every Watt, every Amp, I’ve felt anger, distress, misguided judgement and anguish, which all adds up to depression, but I haven’t given up.
I wasn’t able to go swimming, I have been here with builders, I haven’t been able to go out because I only have my bike and its been raining, and I’m a wimp. But I haven’t given up. I’ve written, I’ve painted, I’ve read and I’ve knitted. What I haven’t done is any cleaning, washing, nor cooking. Why? Because I have been a disaster waiting to happen. Take Thursday, the day I realised that things weren’t quite right. Mark came back on Wednesday from the family funeral and I got up early to surprise him with a fry up. Yep, a week day, a fried breakfast, coffee and his lunch prepare for him, I’m such a Goddess, no I’m a realist.
My reason for treating Mark like a God.
A) He’s bloody useless and grumpy for the first 30 minutes of the morning. Therefore taking coffee wakes him up.
B) He hadn’t eaten the night before, and rather than suffering the moans and groan, I decided breakfast was a good idea, self preservation.
C) I only do his lunch because I want him to live long enough to get his pension, and I consider three Marsbars a day instead of proper food a bad option.
It’s all about me, sort him out, no tantrums, easy morning start. Don’t sort him out and he’s a bloody nightmare and I suffer.
Whilst doing his breakfast, I smashed a plate, then later in the day a bowl joined it in the bin and a damaged bottle of barbeque sauce added to the disaster total. In the mean time I managed to slice my finger, bang my head, and make a Victoria sponge.
I got through Friday well enough, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa with Pride and Prejudice and the white fluffy one.
Saturday, the rain soaked walk to the doctors, and today, my bed.
I’m going to start easy, because you see I’ve had a major overhaul. My human garage is a mess and there are other worn out bits of me that will need seeing to sooner or later, my mop has been frazzled with the soaking yesterday and I could do with a trip to the hairdressers, my body needs an oil change and I should consider changing to a better fuel, but I still have cake. What has been sorted is this awful thing called a mind, it’s be rested for a while and had a chance to gather up the bits and pieces and sort them out. The car crash that was my life three days ago has left scars but it will heal. The house will get finished. As I type Mark is clearing up the rubble in the hall from taking the wooden rail off the walls. The bathroom floor will be put back this week and I will have the place decorated. I am going to have my drivers licence back within the month, and the last physio for my back will be next week. Its all moving forward, but I just forgot that not being in control doesn’t mean not getting anything done.
As for my commitment to carry on, I’ve painting a strange landscape, a notice board in pretty colours, written weird and wacky poetry and fallen in love with Jane Austen. So I’m not depressed I’m just fluffed oft. In a way you could say I have committed myself into my own asylum. One of my own choosing where I have psychoanalysed myself and cured my own ills, for today at least.
What is commitment if it isn’t a statement of motivation. I can’t answer that. I can say that I am committed to getting myself back on the road. My energy had been replenished and I know that I need to commit to getting back to full speed.
Taking a self imposed non sicky bed rest was for me a good idea. Now to get up, get on with it, and get back to life. Wish me luck, I still have a lot to get through.