I’m having one of those weeks where, as if from nowhere, I am reminded of how it feels to be unwell. Fatigue, achey limbs and a head full of cotton wool is all it takes to plunge me into a pit of gloom and negativity.
I’m shocked at how easily I can slip back into ill person mode. Unwashed hair, no make up and tracksuit bottoms doesn’t tend to be my signature look but it’s the one I naturally adopt during weeks like these.
The gremlin I thought I’d silenced has found his nasty little voice again and is whispering in my ear from his cosy spot on my left shoulder. Taunting me with the ‘what if’ game. I don’t want to play.
Fitful sleep and morbid thoughts ensure that I wake up feeling worse than ever.
‘Miss Depression,’ my ten year old called me today. It was like being shot with a little dart. I’m not depressed, my darling. Just a bit scared.
And angry. That, yet again (so boring) I have let myself get this run down and depleted. I want to grab myself by the shoulders, knocking that stupid little gremlin to the floor, and shout.
Come on! You’re doing so well, you’ve done so well, you’re three years in, three whole years clear! What are you trying to do? See how far you can push it? I feel…disappointed with myself.
Quite how I expect my poor body to thrive, flourish and remain well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t feed my children a diet based solely on snacks and treats so god knows why I think I can get away with it.
‘You shouldn’t eat so much sugar,’ mutters my mother on a regular basis. I want to punch her, instead I defiantly rip open another Twirl bar.
So, once again, I find myself resolving to do better. Vitamin supplies replenished, a salad drawer bursting with rainbow food and it’s another new start. I will drink green juice and litres of water when all I really want is another cup of tea. And something to dunk in it…