Tired Of Fighting
My lids are heavy. My limbs are heavy. My presence is heavy. Everything is is an effort today, as it is most days. The most basic of tasks are taxing to a degree they didn’t used to be. Or at least I think they weren’t this way. I have some vague memory that simple things were never constraining.
Yet now… every attempt to help another takes something from me. Every effort to do something for myself is no different. Bed, the couch, even the floor are more enticing than ever. But when I lay down there’s an anchor atop my chest. I’m never comfortable, and once I wake I remain that way until another 24 hours has passed.
My demands keep up though. I refuse to let them get the best of me. Or I like to think I do. But I know that’s not a truth, not one I like to admit to myself. Even now I’m in denial about the situation and pressing forward, avoiding assistance. Because no one is going to do this if I don’t.
When I retired I was told to get a hobby. It’d keep me going they said. It’d occupy my mind, it’d make good use of my time. I said I didn’t want to do anything. After years of work I just wanted to rest.
Then we got the cat.
Today’s art is courtesy of Xi Zhang from Shanghai, China.