Patience. Patience. Patience. Anyone have any spare patience?
There’s a really frustrating part of this recovery that occurs after a bad spell, in which I’m feeling better enough to notice that the house needs to be cleaned, and I’m better enough to feel a twinge of guilt (healthy guilt, no guilt-bashing!) that the kids aren’t getting as much of my attention as they and I both want, and I’m better enough so that I can actually imagine going for a walk outside or painting or taking photos, but I’m not actually better enough to do much except play Facebook games, occasionally read, and sometimes do some art journalling (weighted much too heavily on the Facebook games, and not nearly heavily enough on the other two). And then I get impatient. I lay in bed and stare out at the small patch of tree and sky I can see, assuming that the window is not iced over, and get a little blue.
I *know* I’m getting better. I *know* I’ve been sick most of my life so I can’t expect to be well all at once. I *know* I’m incredibly lucky to be recovering, and not dying, and not in any danger of it coming back, but I’m tired of being in bed and I want OUT. Can you tell?
Patience, Grasshopper.
