I haven’t blogged in a bit, because I’ve been feeling sorry for myself. I squandered a four day weekend. Woe is me.
I rarely get vacation days, because all of my paid time off is used toward sick time. I think it’s mighty unfair that chronically ill people can’t afford vacation days because they spend their time on trips to Pain Island and Brain Fog Beach.
Yes, I’m in a sad and bitter mood, because I was given the rare opportunity of four days of rest and I completely overcommitted. I decided would compete in an AKC agility trial all four days. I would like to remind you that I am allergic to exercise. And also dogs.
Agility is the dog sport with the tunnels, weave poles, and other obstacles. Each run lasts about 50 seconds, so with premedication my body can tolerate a couple. But not TWELVE. I told myself all the pain would be offset by an armful of ribbons and maybe a new title. Instead, I came home with zero ribbons and a few embarrassing videos.
It turns out almost everyone who signed up for all four days regretted it. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do I forget my limitations around others? Do I enjoy the disapproving looks from my poodle?
I struggled with overcommittment before I was diagnosed, which certainly contributed to the severity of my disease. However, now I face violent and serious consequences.
Like alien nightmares.
It was a short dream on Sunday night. I heard a siren and instinctively began running, trying to find somewhere to hide. Suddenly, the floor I was standing on started to rise toward the sky. The sides of the floor folded up like a box and then a spaceship, and I realized I had been captured by aliens.
I awoke sickened with terror, only to realize I couldn’t move at all. Bursts of hot pain began shooting down my arms and legs. I watched helplessly as my limbs shook from spasms. In reality, I had been captured by my mast cells in the dead of the night.
The attack left me exhausted physically and emotionally. I felt anxious about returning to work unrefreshed, but forced myself to attend the remaining day of the competition. When would I feel refreshed again? Weeks? Months? I came home and cried irrationally at the possibility of never enjoying a vacation again.
Then I ate a chicken quesadilla. I watched Season Five of Girls and read David Sedaris’ “Naked.” My mast cells settled down too. Self care isn’t hard. The hard part is saying no.
I bought some pictures at the trial to cheer me up. Because I look super athletic. (They cropped out my moon face.) I guess people usually buy the pictures for the images of the dogs.