Sometimes it all seems perfectly fair. Not so much the bigger picture, although there is a temptation to build some poetry around that. Like the idea that illness is the only bit of tremendous bad luck I have really had in my life and I need this in order to balance out all the good stuff. But I know that’s crap. None of us get a fair share of good or bad luck; I could just as easily imagine it was a karma, a test from God or some much. Or that I needed to get sick in order to fulfil some destiny or other. Nope, the bigger picture isn’t fair or orderly, it simply is.
But the day-to-day, sometimes that all seems perfectly fair. This is really about stability as opposed to fairness. Times when whatever I do, I have a good idea how much its going to cost me. I walk the distance between here and there and I know how much it will hurt, how long it will hurt for and how many times I can do it without causing myself trouble tomorrow. Brain stuff too, to a more limited extent. Cause and effect. Consumption and expenditure, of a kind.
And at such times, it seems fair, even though it is a bit rubbish compared to the deal most people enjoy. Enjoy - now there’s an interesting word. Well, not terribly interesting, but I do think that it is enjoyable when life is so orderly. Pain and fatigue are not all bad; I remember it being nice to ache after you have done something worth aching for and there was a certain satisfied sleepiness at the end of an exciting or productive day. There still is, sometimes. Like a sprain acquired during a outlandish sexual experiment that makes you giggle every time it twinges. I should imagine.
When it seems terribly unfair, it does so for the silliest reasons. Like sometimes I have gone out somewhere or done something social when I knew full well what it would cost me, but it wasn't really worth it. I didn't get enough fun out of it to feel like this afterwards. And often I am most frustrated, not during relapse, but whenmy health is doing relatively well. Just not quite well enough to do as much as I feel I ought to be able to do.
Which I guess is where I am just now, really. A wave of fog, but not a nasty discombobulating one. I'm just struggling to write or do anything much useful. It's only been a few days and it'll pass soon enough. What's more, I am not suffering at all; I have been reading lots, watching films, painting a bit (badly, I made a terrible mess actually; I wasn't really well enough to try). I have read five books this month so far, which strike's me as a little excessive. But I really want to feel like I'm getting somewhere. Six weeks time it'll be the middle of the year already. And that's not fair.
No, I know, not much of a post as an exercise in stringing words together into sentences. I shall now go and do something else pleasant on this sunny afternoon whilst the rest of the world is at work. Poor me.