Tired of Me

Monday was the first day that I felt reasonably OK after the Virus from Hell rampaged through our family. Tuesday was my first day back at work since the previous Tuesday. On Wednesday, normally an off day, I went in to work to go to a conference we were putting on, then ran back to get Em from school, took her to Brownies, went to therapy, picked Em up from Brownies, came home and made dinner, worked on the freelance project due on Monday on which I am now behind. I went to bed around midnight.

In the middle of the night, I woke up bathed in sweat from my waist down, and freezing cold from my waist up. I went to the bathroom, where I started shivering so violently that part of my face felt numb. I became convinced I was having a stroke. (Note to self: There's a reason you stopped watching ER. Just because Cynthia Nixon is on doesn't mean the rest of the show is going to be any better...and it also doesn't mean you're not going to be a hypochondriac about it within a week.) I went back to bed and tried to ignore the numbness and shivering. Baroy asked me if I was OK, but I refused to answer, afraid my speech would come out slurred and I'd freak the hell out. (Hey. I know. But I have things. Remember?)

I woke up Thursday with a headache and a tiredness that I could feel in my bones. I felt like I was going to fall asleep as I drove to work with N that morning, the morning of the now-notorious Shoe Incident. I only work until 1:30 on Thursdays, so I managed to drag myself through the morning. Driving back home alone, I really thought I was going to have to pull over. This is ridiculous, I thought. It's the middle of the day. I shouldn't be this tired.

But I was. I got home, waved in Baroy's direction, climbed into bed, and fell asleep. He woke me at 4:30 on his way to pick up N from daycare. I couldn't drag myself out of bed until 5, when I went to get Em from her afterschool care. We went to the supermarket, got some stuff for dinner, came home. I started to unpack the groceries, looked at Baroy and said, "I can't do this," and went upstairs. I hung out on the computer a while, then fell asleep at around 9. I woke up Friday morning at 6:30 when N came into our room, and I was still exhausted.

I'm chalking all of this up to post-Virus-From-Hell syndrome. But it's an accurate reflection of my insides as well. At therapy on Wednesday, I basically sat there and told my therapist that I'm just tired of this--tired of constantly taking my emotional temperature, tired of wondering whether my reactions to one thing or another are reasonable or normal, tired of analyzing myself on a regular basis. And, as usual, this woman, my therapist, who I generally tend to mentally discount as simply benign and nice and easy to talk to--but about whom I am completely wrong--pulled me up straight with her response, which made me both laugh and nod: "Maybe," she said, "maybe it's time to just accept that you're neurotic and anxious and get on with your life."

Hee! That's so right, so freeing, so sad and so limiting all at once. I did leave there resolved to stop worrying about myself so much, however...and promptly broke that promise when I woke up convinced I was stroking out.

Now, I'm worrying that the malaise I'm feeling is a sign of a returning depression, prompted by viral fatigue. I'm worrying about whether my meds are failing. And that makes me feel guilty about not doing a very good job of accepting my neurotic and anxious self for who she is. Which depresses me. Which makes me feel tired.

I am, in so many ways, truly tired of me.