So I did it, I blogged everysingleday in August. I went away for the weekend and it was gogogo. Several art galleries and much bridesmaid dress shopping (my sister is getting married and I’m a bridesmaid) I came home and I painted every day that week. I started 7 paintings, went to a preview and dealt with the strangeness of people who aren’t me publicising my work. Workworkwork. I decided I could cope with that, and not only that but I loved it. The enthusiasm of going somewhere, starting something and seeing it through to the end. Exploring, producing, thinking and learning. I love making paintings!
But then I got sick and everything stopped.
The thing is it’s hard to say if it’s “sickness” or “depression”. I woke up on Monday morning with that terribly familiar ache in my chest and the realisation that everything was terrible. But then the aches started in my shins, the cough appeared, my limbs took on a lead-like quality and the violent sneezes threatened me. So am I ill or depressed? It’s hard to say. It seems like the ill-er I feel the more content I am. When my symptoms lessen the more I am inclined to start the self talk “Oh I have to work today and I have to exercise and it’s going to be so hard and I don’t want to I just want to go back to bed but then I wouldn’t have worked and I’ll get fat and unfit and I’m very very very lazy” It’s like I have a perfectly reasonable excuse to rest once I get past this certain point of illness but other than that I’m just a big lazy lump.
My path to self compassion is, as always, ongoing.
