On Friday, I shared this recent poem with you. I published this one in particular to be an encouragement to you, but I wrote this completely for myself.
Today my mind is foggy, my throat a little sore, even after drinking green tea. Over the past few weeks, it feels as if my body is disintegrating in small ways. My stamina is gone. My allergies and mold in the air are affecting my enjoyment of being outside. Eating out a few times last week has disrupted my eating patterns. Today I am frustrated, sad, and weary.
It feels like so much work, only to be lying on the couch again exhausted. I do grow weary in doing good. I do grow weary in my self-care, in my meal preparation, in my epsom salt baths, in morning walks and yoga, in my every-3-week IVs, in explaining to people why I eat the way I do.
I’m also still weary because I’ve let myself grieve. Because of Hashimoto’s, my body does not handle grief or stressful situations as resiliently as it used to. So when I work through strong emotions over a period of time, my body grows weary.
I grow weary on days when I fixate on what I’ve missed out on, rather than claim the gifts I have to bring into the world.
I grow weary simply because I have Hashimoto’s and choose to not start of the day like this.
I must write because I need to re-read what I’ve written. I need to remember the sad days, the happy days, the boring days, and the weary days. I need to remember that I’m loved just for being me on all those days.
I re-read all the entries in this journal before I feel asleep one night last week. I was caught up again in all the questions I was asking, in the anxiety of transition, and the excitement of Spring Break. I saw glimpses of why I love spiritual direction in a fresh light, and why I’m drawn to solitude. I filled this particular journal with lots of poems that I read through and copied down at Carmel Library.
I must remember that my body is beautiful because it’s mine. Because when my brain gets foggy because of allergies, I do not perceive myself well. I need help remembering, and so I write.