I woke up at 5:30 this morning, which I try to do every day that I work my day job.
See how I said “work my day job”?
Maybe if I keep telling myself it’s just my day job, I will once again be able to tell people with confidence that I am a writer.
A writer who has barely written or shared anything she’s written in years, besides snippets of poetry and prose catered to prompts.
Not that I’m complaining about writing prompts, I love writing prompts. They get me writing faster and with more speed and enthusiasm than any other kind of inspiration I ever find.
The last time I had COVID-19 was in mid-December of 2022, and I have not felt the same since.
After that last infection, which burned through me, literally manifesting itself as a fever that stayed over 103 for a day and above 100 for three days with no respiratory symptoms at all, I have remained somewhat broken.
I developed high blood pressure and tachycardia for the first time in my life, and now I’m on medications for both of those things.
My body seems like it’s not able to produce and/or store vitamin B-12 and iron, so now I give myself a shot of B-12 once a month, and I’ve been seeing a hematologist at the cancer hospital to see if, after two iron infusions, my body holds on to it.
I have hot flashes like a woman in the midst of menopause and I only just turned 42.
But the worst thing?
I am just so. fucking. tired. all. the. time.
The worst part, I think, is that I am most tired when I wake up.
It’s a daily fight for my life to get out of bed, start moving, and start trying like hell to shake off the weight of the exhaustion that rises with me every morning.
My psychiatrist doesn’t believe me that I am most tired in the morning and become more alert as the day goes on – to the point when some nights I have to force myself to get in bed because I don’t feel sleepy.
It’s making me miserable, depressed.
It’s making me not look forward to waking up in the morning, and that right there is a slippery slope.
Want to hear the real bitch of it?
I had a sleep study scheduled for last Friday night (after waiting nearly six months to get into the clinic) only to have them call me Friday morning and say “Sorry, we have to reschedule because your technician called out sick for the night.”
Now I have to wait another 26 days.
Not like anyone’s counting.
Not like it matters to anyone but me.
I signed up for Mastodon last night, because I am not going back to Twitter, and I am hesitant to start using Instagram again.
Facebook is out of the question, but Bluesky may be a possibility if I can’t figure out Mastodon.
I’ve concluded that yes, when it comes to my writing, (at least some of my writing) I DO want to share with the world.
Between complaints about my health and all the writing about not writing, I’d really love to use this space ( MY SPACE!) to work on my craft, or on myself, every day.
I am a poet and forgot it.
I am a writer of fictional stories and novels.
I am a writer of creative non-fiction and essays.
I am a writer who hasn’t been sharing her writing because I have such low self-esteem, I don’t expect people to pay attention, I don’t expect people to comment – I expect people to ridicule me.
I have to get over that.
I hope whoever’s reading this helps me and doesn’t hurt me even more than I have been in the last 42 years.
