Almost happy

There's a strange dynamic about being ill. Being ill on top of being ill, I mean. Garden variety cold meets CFS. I hate it when I feel it coming. I resist with all my might the feeling of extented exhaustion I fear my body can't take. I feel like I've already crossed my yearly quotum of feeling miserable and it's unfair of the universe to rub in some more. To have my heart pound out of chest and feel like I'm out of breath the minute I utter a sentence or eat a sandwich. The heavy head and the stinging eyes. The way my entire body feels the way your legs feel after a 15 mile hike. A fatigue so extreme it has me laying flat in bed feeling it is too much of an effort to even turn over or reach for a water bottle. To feel that exact same level of tired after three straight days of bed and every night's sleep.The feverish feeling that takes over every time I dare get out of bed and eat something. Having to let go of even those very few things I can still pull off in a day.

But then there's this moment.
When the fighting doesn't work and I have no choice but to give in to the extended missery - something happens. Acception takes over, and with it comes a downright cheerfullness. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I know it's there with every new cold, sure as the runny nose and the spaghetti legs. I'm happy. I guess that now that I really can't do anything, I'm no longer obliged to try. I'm finally excused to do absolutely nothing. I can stop the fight. And I can take up one I know the rules to, one I know how to win. Lie still for three days. Eat vitamines. And asperines. Wipe nose. Rub Vicks. When I do that, it takes of week of misery and another one of recovery, and then I'll be fine again. Till then, I get to taste the long forgotten experience of feeling a little better every day and knowing how to gard that. Maybe it's cos the little I usually can pull off suddenly feels like being fit, and I know I'll have that again a few weeks from now. Maybe it's being forced back to life cos I'm too out for even most forms of procrastination. Maybe it's being forced to tackle chronique misery again, and retrieve some of the answers that usually get lost in an ongoing battle to try and live a little. Whatever it is, it makes me relax and give in and lay back for a bit. And be as happy as I'll ever be.

Untill it stops again. I push through a little longer, more bed, more vitamins - I still feel lousy. And then I realise that this is normal lousy again. From here on, I can pop and rubb and sleap and get up whatever I want, but nothing's gonna change. This is as fine as I'll get. From the weeks behind me I take with me a hint of peace, not being obliged to take up the world anymore, simply because I can't. And a renewed addiction to wanting a little more.