I’m in a bit of a dark place this week. My head is throbbing with a sinus infection. I have a sore throat and my eyes are watering. Every fiber of my being wants to write, needs to write. But I know what that means. It means that what I write will most likely be morose and grim and possibly a little creepy.
It’s days like these, when I’m tempted to throw myself, prostrate across my bed and call it a day. All winter long, I’ve barely recovered from one illness before being hit by another. I got a flu shot, I exercise, I eat well, but still, I feel like I’m a big weenie who can’t fight off a basic cold.
Yesterday, somebody asked me if I took supplements. She’s a nice person, so I saved my raging against marketing gimmicks and the FDA and the need for nutritional food for another day. But I still felt defensive, like I hadn’t done all the right things and were to blame for this misery. Another person mentioned probiotics. Been there, done that, eating the yogurt with all the weird shit in it. Weird shit about sums up how I spent the next few days.
The fact of the matter is that unless you live alone, don’t use public transportation, and don’t interact with other humans on a regular basis, you’re going to be exposed to infectious diseases. I have a couple of strikes against me – an elementary school child and a husband who rides public transportation and works in a cubicle farm. I am home most of the day working (or pretending to) so my exposure comes from people I hug, kiss and get breathed on by regularly.
The other thing that people talk about is cleaning. I come from an OCD family, so that’s not an issue. My hands are raw from cleaning and dishes and hand washing. However, we do not use chlorine based chemicals or disposable wipes in the interests of the environment. The smells are overwhelming as well. But here again, I feel like I have to defend my insistence on using vinegar for everything, that I am still somehow to blame for my illnesses.
I’ve always been a relatively healthy person until I had a child, hit middle age and started to spread myself pretty thin commitment-wise. I have tried to manage time so that I get enough sleep, but peri-menopausal hormone shifts mean vivid dreams about working on a cargo ship or that I forgot something incredibly important, which startles me awake at 2am. I’ve written about the insomnia, the weird waking hours. Short of taking mind-altering drugs, I’ve accepted that these are the cards I’ve been dealt.
I can only take responsibility for the factors within my reasonable control. Beyond that, I’m going to write what I’m going to write – while sneezing, coughing, even possibly groaning a bit. It’s a victory to write no matter how I feel. Who knows what might emerge out of my murky, stuffed up thoughts? Just don’t ever use my keyboard.
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