Time to slow down.

The first time I had an x-ray done to try and see why I was in constant pain I was 8 years old. When I was 18 I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. Other diagnoses have arrived over the years. I haven’t started seriously trying to treat my physical issues until my 30’s.

Now I’m fucking expensive. Lately every Friday I see: a massage therapist, a chiropractor, and an acupuncturist. That’s to keep me *moving*; I’m trying to slow the rate of damage right now. It isn’t possible to heal while working the hours I’m working. I’m doing more damage every day.

I saw my massage therapist for an extra hour yesterday. She spent an hour putting one side of my clavicle into place and mostly digging the nerves back into place on one elbow. There wasn’t time to touch my hand let alone the other arm. Because it took her so long to unlock the joint around the clavicle to put it back in place.

I have to stop lifting. Like, for real.

My body is crumbling and I believe I have so little worth that I have to keep working until I completely collapse.

This is not positive.

I follow a bunch of African women on Twitter. Today one of them said something like how the world isn’t going to cut you a cheque for being a good person; the world doesn’t care. I interpreted this as meaning: do what you do because it feeds you and not because you hope for a pay off in the end.

Sometimes I wonder about the wisdom of working at such a rate that I am going to kill myself early and I won’t get to enjoy the payoff of the beauty of this house.

Then I think that the resale value is going to be pretty fantastic and my kids will be safe whether I’m dead or alive.

Yesterday I had a chat with my daughter. She was the first one up. She asked me what I’ve learned from her. I said that I learned that snuggling really and truly is mandatory for happiness because I’ve gotten to see concretely in her behavior what happens if we snuggle or don’t on a given day. Her behavior is so different. She needs to snuggle or she has a hard time managing her feelings. If she gets in a snuggle in the morning she does better for the whole rest of the day. She’s more calm. It’s like someone handed her a bonus 20 spoons.

I didn’t understand how physiologically important contact was before that. I knew I always felt like I had a deficit of 20 spoons when I started every day but I didn’t know to connect it to the fact that I was touch hungry.

I wouldn’t have been raped so many times if I hadn’t been so desperate to have someone, anyone touch me in any way they were willing to. I know that I bear a lot of responsibility for being in places I shouldn’t have been. But I was a little kid and I didn’t know and I was so fucking lonely.

So I guess I got what I deserved.

My fingertips burn like fire and they will until the skin grows back. Using a razor blade without a handle for hours a day for months… did bad things to my hands.

I’m struggling with feeling like I’ve abruptly stopped working so now I’m a useless cow. I haven’t even really stopped working; I’ve just slowed the pace and I’m doing stuff I’ve been putting off for months. I’m not doing tile/painting. I’m seriously dreading painting right now. My arms and shoulders hurt so much that the very idea makes me want to cry.

I’m not painting this week. Next week. This week is fucking busy. Mondays and Wednesdays are the easiest days for painting due to babysitting plus class schedules and I missed them this week because I was doing other work.

I’m angry with myself for feeling like taxes are procrastinating. No, they aren’t. That is mandatory work. I am not wasting energy by putting things in storage in the shed now that it is moved into a more permanent location. I’m not being lazy if I go outside and weed; yes it brings me joy–that doesn’t change the fact that it is work.

I hurt. I’m cranky. I don’t like me all that much. Ok. I’m done whining for the day.