Troubles of the un-diagnosed patient.

Writing down my thoughts through my Paris experience gave me the opportunity to both reflect upon my time there and to help me take a step back and look at my own experience as an outsider. It let me stop and imagine what someone else would get from reading my experience. Would they make connections? Would I be able to read this years from now and feel that I'd make the same choices?

I'm thinking these thoughts because I am once again going through a period of great change in my life. Unlike many of my peers, after graduation, I jumped right in to a full-time job as a toddler teacher. I was working 9 to 5, salaried, with benefits, alongside co-workers whom I absolutely adored and babies who made me want to come to work every day. My rent was low, my connections in the town were high, and everything was going pretty hunky-dory.

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Really, I could have seen the signs, if I had slowed down a bit. But I don't think that there was any part of me that was ready or willing to slow down. I knew that I had to sleep 9 to 10 hours a night in order to feel functional the next day, and I knew that often, this meant getting home from work, getting dinner ready, and having a couple hours to zone out before nodding off.

I knew that I probably needed more time off from work to recover from being sick than my co-workers, but the last thing I wanted was for my bosses to think that I was just being lazy. So, I let myself push through during times when I maybe just needed to back off and let myself rest.

However, even after getting to this point of exhaustion, I still don't believe that I could have stopped any earlier than right now.

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I quit my job less than a week ago via e-mail. My perfect job, to which I was technically contractually obligated for at least 7 more months, was the first job where I received benefits. It was also the first job that I have ever had to quit. That was quite hard for me, especially when I didn't want to leave.

When I first started feeling the wear and tear of the fatigue, I would wake up in the morning and ask myself, "Could I lift a 2-year old today?" If I said no, I wouldn't go in to work.

It's been two weeks, and I still couldn't lift a baby to change his diaper.

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This feeling of weakness is what pains me the most. When I can't do anything more than keep my eyes open for long enough to let tears run down, I let them fall. When I open my eyes in the morning but the whole rest of my body won't get up, I stay. I have to fight through everything, not against any outside attacker, but against my own body.

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I started this blog again so that I can have an outlet. It seems like the more I try to explain to people what's going on, the less I'm heard for what I'm feeling. And conversely, the less I explain, the more legitimate I feel in needing help.

I hope that writing will help, and at least it gives me something to do while I'm stuck in bed when sleep won't come.