I have a stabbing pain in my chest. Maybe it’s on my side; it moves around a little. I’m a bit of a wreck today. Maybe if I wash my hands, the rest of me will feel better.
I got up early and went for a swim. This went well, but my legs felt leaden and my body felt water-logged. I’m not really a swimmer. I could always dog-paddle but I could never get my head in the water or knew anything about breathing and timing. I took adult swim lessons last year and learned that there is a rhythm to it all, and now I am working on that. It’s getting much better; there is nothing like improvement to motivate you. Still, I am a beginner and it takes energy to keep learning.
I keep meaning to do something, but each time I do I get tired. I am not a very good sick person because I need to be completely physically incapacitated or I just end up wasting all my energy trying to think I am okay, without really resting. It’s like anxious resting; I am waiting to feel better but not really resting to get there.
It’s hard to be sick when it’s sunny out. It feels confusing, as though the weather is deceiving your body. It’s better to be sick when it’s miserable out, when it’s cold, rainy and the wind comes in gusts. I feel adverse to the outdoors; I just want to stay protected from everything.
I often imagine my life as a movie. In this movie I live in a quaint attic apartment, that somehow also has high vaulted ceilings and glorious sunlight streaming within. I wear a lot of scarves and skirts in my movie. (I don’t do this normally, my legs get too cold). I drink coffee, or mocha, or tea; it depends on my mood. I am probably a writer in this movie, or an artist. Usually in the movies people who live in quaint attics are quirky and creative. I ride my bicycle in this movie. My long scarf trails behind me, as though I am leaving part of it behind, but it always seems to hang on. I always feel great in this movie.
Perhaps I will put on a scarf now and watch the sunshine. I will actively rest awhile. My hands are clean.