Pause

It comes as a surprise – and I’m expecting it. At least, I thought I was.

I sent several messages the other day, happy about feeling stronger, thinking I was on the other side of the initial herx. I was happy not to need to ask for anymore help on this round. I must have been on a bit of adrenaline, because the next day, I crashed. Hard.

I didn’t realize how far I’d come from not being able to do anything without overdoing until this treatment sent me back. I didn’t realize how much I do at a computer – in spite of my health – until sitting up became practically impossible. I took the month off, but I still have plenty to do. I’ve barely had energy to post, which is why I have been so quiet here this week.

My brain is active, but my body refuses to function. I lie around, feeling lazy. If I can think, shouldn’t I do? But if I do, I do too much, and I pay for it with worsening symptoms the next hour or the next day – or two. This is the hardest thing, necessary rest.

I writhe under it. I’m sick of TV. Too cross-eyed to read. Too tired to type. I am isolated with my thoughts and the necessary, always a little uncomfortable.

I weigh my life in the balance, and it is wanting. I am wanting – or perhaps I am not wanting and this is the problem. Photography is something I do – artist is someone I am. I am not a businesswoman. I don’t know how to create a crystal-clear brand that will make my business soar. I’m not hard enough to rule out things that I love, push away people that matter. I begin to understand the inspiration I follow. I begin to think that I am in this hard, alone place because I am doing something – choosing something that nobody does. It is not recommended. The competition in my industry doesn’t allow it.

I pull back a bit. Remember that I don’t have to succeed at the business. I created it so I could do what I love and get paid for it – whatever it is. I get up and the morning and I am who I am. I don’t put things on, as a general rule. You know. Other than clothing. Authenticity for me means letting it all hang out. Not having anything to hide. Not choosing who I am or my own acceptable weaknesses.

I’m uncomfortable now. Uncomfortable because I am not perfect, and I’m not what I want to be, and I’m not what anyone else wants me to be either. I would rather not live here like this. I would rather be off the couch and doing. I would rather not need help and not know how to ask for it – or where. I would rather not need the grace I must accept or despair.

I sit and wait, and let the treatment have its way, let the kids do what they will do, let the world keep spinning without me, hoping I can come back again and be a part at the end of all of this.