I’ve had some of those awful days recently (they happen now and then, and more often than I’d like).
You know the type: days when instead of your bed being somewhere that you go to rest, your bed becomes a prison that you can barely get out of.
Days when all you can do is survive and when that’s far from easy.
And I know the best thing I can do is mentally accept it and say, OK, bed day, and put my head down till it passes (which it eventually does, no matter how much you believe it won’t when you’re in the moment).
But here’s the thing, I am rubbish at accepting these days.
I was brought up in a society that says doing is good, doing is achieving. A society where self-worth seems to be determined by success.
But when I’m having an abysmal bed day, I can’t do anything. Just breathing, existing (and trying to wash and eat) is like climbing Mount Everest with the flu.
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