Today, I feel like you are hovering all around me, like you’ve fashioned yourself into a suit of scouring pads, hugging me tightly at every turn. I can’t remove you while you scrub into me. Abrasive to my peace of mind. Bruising me with invisible bruises.
I feel the weight of you with each move I try to make. Whether I sit, stand or lie down, each position brings its own individual challenges — stabs, jabs, or prickles of pain. Shooting pain or radiating pain. A never-ending menu of surprises.
I stare at you in the mirror sometimes, and it’s like staring at myself but more elusive.
This week, I noticed that I have worn a hole in my sheet with restless legs in pain at night.
I have no questions for you now — just making these observations so that I can remember these days.
I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that annoying thing you do first thing in the morning. I know it’s protocol to use “I” statements when addressing frustrations, but I’m skipping the formalities for now since we’re on a first-name basis.
I don’t like it when I wake up with that deep aching feeling in my legs. It’s first thing in the morning, and I’m barely awake, semi-comfortable in bed, maybe stirring from a good dream, and it should be a sweet, soft “hello” moment for my day, but right in the middle of my first yawn, I feel that crawling sensation and find that my legs are on fire. I would prefer if you would try to restrain this, but since I suspect that you will probably not heed my preferences, I wanted to at least get this out into the open.
When people talk of “leaping from bed with vigor to start a new day,” I laugh. What a nice fairytale. Instead of leaping, I slide, roll, crawl and hobble. But, despite you, I am choosing to enjoy my days and do whatever I can to keep your antics on the back-burner.
I don’t mind telling you that I plan to air even more of your not-so-nice secrets . . . if you have any defense for yourself, I’m all ears.