The Struggle Of The Everyday March To Nowhere

This morning it was impossible to get out of bed. Last night it was impossible to concentrate. If I didn't know better I'd say I was having a bad disease day, but since the WG is in remission, I can't blame it. Which is too bad, considering I blame the disease for a lot -- like it's another person living inside of me that I can point a finger at and shout: "This, this is all YOUR fault and what are you going to do about it!"

I've been complaining (skip forward those of you who could care less) a lot about being tired. The Super Fancy Disease Doctor has ruled out the disease as the cause. Excellent, yes, but now what? The kidney doctor has always said it's just a modern-day plague. My family doctor (my my it's a lot of opinions, isn't it?) says it's probably the panic that's making me feel so tired. Putting your body through all that flight/fight stuff, the pain in my chest, the constant nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, means that you're exhausted by the end of each day. And am I ever feeling it this week.

So far this week I've managed two pages of edits and with the two-thirds of my manuscript still to go, I'm already a full week past my deadline. But last night I wanted to burn (virtually) the entire project. Don't worry, I won't, but the urge to press delete and just get on with my life, accept the fact that I'll never publish the damn thing, was great. It was either that or quit my job because I certainly can't do two things at once and this giant split down the centre of my being is perhaps a little overwhelming.

Also, my hip hurts.

Blah complain blah tired blah frustrated blah de freaking blah.

Okay. Now that it's out of my system maybe I just need to go home and have a nap.