I’ve overdone it. I’m now in deficit mode.
It makes me terrifically angry that doing so damned little by any sort of objective measure can be enough to flatten me like this.
In the past month I have had two eye doctor appointments for myself, one visit to the psychiatrist, one to the counsellor, and one to the dentist. Okay, that is a fair number of appointments, but still.
And I’ve taken The Boy to one appointment for him, and taught for four days.
Now, yes, that’s more than I usually do in a month. But I used to go to work five days a week and do stuff at home in the evenings and on the weekends. Even granting that I was running myself a bit too hard back then, leaving the house once or twice a week for an afternoon or a day ought not to leave a person so wrung out.
But it does. Even with my medication, it does. The drugs help, a lot: I took extra the day I saw the dentist, and I am sleeping at night, though I still don’t fall asleep quite as fast as I’d like, it’s such an improvement over how it was before I’ll not complain. But I look at the dishwasher that needs unloading and I think … wow, that’s … wow. Let me rest for a few minutes then I’ll tackle that.
I’m going to go climb back into my recliner with some yarn and a story and make another shawl. Because I just can’t wring anything else out of me right now, not even tears. And I truly do feel like crying.
I’m just too wrung out to be bothered.