#so heres a poem about realizing youve got another nameless chronic illness that youll have to fight the doctors to diagnose

[lethesbeastie]

I miss being able to do more than 3 things in a day.

There's something wrong with my body, with my brain. Something I haven't put a name to yet, though I've got hypothesis of what it might be. Something is plaguing my body, weighing down my limbs, my heart, my head.

Do you ever feel as if you live your life wading through water? Like you've been drowning for years, chained by your ankles to am impossible weight, struggling inch by inch across the open ocean floor?

Probably not.

I'm starting to realize the way I live is far from mundane, farther still from humane. I struggle to eat. Struggle to shower. To stop. To rest. Like a shark underwater, I swear on God it feels if I stop moving, I will drown.

I can't stop moving, can't sit still, can't escape the static that starts to stutter up my spine the moment i try. It hurts to sit more than it hurts to move, more than it hurts to grind my own joints into dust, chasing the slender phantom of nervous system regulation.

Stimming, I'd said. That's what the pacing is, that's why I have to stay on my feet from the moment I leave my bed, that's why I can't ever, ever sit still.

I'm not so sure about it now.

It hurts to sit still. Hurts to move. Hurts to think and think and think, to have ideas, to want to Make, but to be denied release by the exhaustion that plagues my body.

I'm tired. So tired. I am tired of feeling tired, of feeling both everything and nothing at all. Nervous system circuits short circuiting inside me, I'm impatient with my own exhaustion, desperate to do anything except to search for rest. No one has ever taught me how to rest.

There is something wrong with my body. Something I'm trying to name (something that the doctors will claim is nothing at all), something haunting me, parasitic in its nature, in its pupputeering of my aching, shaking hands.

I want it to get better. Want to stop feeling half dead and less than alive when I rise to greet a day that's almost over. Want to stop seeing the disappointment in my mother's eyes when once again, I cannot gather myself into some semblance of humanity long enough to do the god damned dishes.

I'm trying to fix this mom, I promise. Thank you for doing the dishes for me. I'm sorry I can't get better fast enough. Yeah, I'm tired of my bullshit too.