It’s a bitch. Today is a particularly bad day, I’m using a stick to navigate the house, and I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself. I have nerve damage in both legs from a nicked sciatic nerve during surgery in 2010 (ruptured ectopic pregnancy, but that’s a whole other post). The facet joints in my back are both degenerated, too, causing a lot of back pain, and those things combined cause an issue with mobility (ie: on my bad days I don’t have much tolerance for standing, let alone walking).

Lately my mobility has been a little better, but today is a stark reminder of why I can’t push myself, and that when I forget this, I suffer for it.

When I was younger, illness/pain was an inconvenience rather than something to be nurtured better. I do completely understand that as a single parent, taking time off work or having to ask grandparents to child-mind was a pain, but it’s no coincidence that I have a huge amount of guilt as an adult for being a ‘burden’ when I’m unwell or in pain. I was labelled a hypochondriac, a drama queen, as though I got sick on purpose. I’m sure that one of the reasons she never visited me in hospital after the ectopic pregnancy (except on the night she got the call that I might not live to see the morning) was because it was ‘just another drama’. Once the surgery (5 hours) was over and I was ‘stable’ she left and never came back.

I try to be kind to myself when I’m suffering these days, but that instinct of ‘oh pull yourself together’ is the very first thought. I know why it’s there, but it’s a hard habit to break.

Today, though, is a bed and Netflix/Podcast/Reading day. I’m going to look after myself and let myself heal in a way that was never modelled to me. I’m going to damn well look after myself, with tea and sympathy and love. With all the things I needed as a child, but can now do for myself as an adult.

I’m going to be kind.