#recovery as laying in the dirt and bitching at the sky

[finding-the-honey]

Today is not a recovery day. It's not even celebrate the small things kind of day. It's survive the day, and try not to stress about how far it feels like you've backslid. Or why.

My arms are useless. Muscle pain is high. I keep falling asleep, even though I actually went to bed at a semi-decent (for me) time, and slept in later than I have been.

Too much sleep? Not enough of the right kind? Maybe a push back against yesterday's carb binge?

Nothing tastes quite right, either.

For once it doesn't seem to be stress related, but I'll be fucked if I know wtf it is. I can't even really say it's from taking my meds later than usual, because I've been feeling off since I got up.

Ugh fuck I hate this. Fucking hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

And none of this helps.

The weirdest part is I've managed to write. For days I've been struggling to get my word count in, no inspiration at all and no fucks for even just faking it, but this morning, first thing, bam. Next thing I know I've got my word count for the day, and then some.

But even that can't temper my temper, can't make me less angry. I have shit I need to do. Shit I want to do. I'm fucking hungry and need something to fucking eat.

Maybe just ... start there. Find something to eat and see if that helps. Make a good cup of coffee, too, because fuck it. Find a fucking treat somewhere in this shit pile of a day.