I suppose in my head I’ve always though putting good things into life = getting good things out of it. An old-fashioned idea, maybe. This week it seems it’s an idea that doesn’t work. I hate it because this time last week, how dreamy I was feeling, and how lovely it was to feel dreamy again. I was in a blissful state of mind, a trance semi-induced by Bon Iver. Contrast that with now, when I feel a bitterness and a hanging cloud overhead and I am feeling too lacklustre to listen to any music at all.

I don’t get it. I think I am beginning to get life figured out and then it makes a U-turn. Friday I suddenly woke up with that old familiar tiredness—I was so heavy, and everything I did had a slowed-down effort to it, the opposite of that dreamy airiness feeling from the rest of the week.

For some reason, I was determined to make muffins. I can’t remember the last time I baked anything. Maybe two years ago? Then I discovered we had no flour and almost had a meltdown. I felt so fragile, I could have been knocked over by a feather. It was cold (I love the cold), and it was sunny (I love the sunshine), but I did not feel happy or invigorated. I just felt…tired. But there was that flour to get, and I figured I’d feel better if I got it. So I grabbed my coat and purse and somehow made it out the back gate. On a day like that, that was an accomplishment in itself. I made it to the shop and found the flour. My heart was beating so fast as I waited in line. I thought I was going to either faint or run out and back home as quickly as possible, or horrible things would escape every orifice, or my insides were completely going to collapse. So I left the line and stared intently at some bananas. The guy working there must have walked past wondering why this pale girl was so angry at these bananas.

Well, guess what, I made it. I held on to that bag of flour for dear life. Clutched it as if it were proof of my being well, my being OK. I don’t mind telling you that the day went progressively downhill after that. I also don’t mind telling you that I survived, as I always do.

I’m not sure why I am entombing these last few couple of days like I want to remember them, because I sincerely don’t. Maybe I need proof that I have survived and that though there will be bad moments in the future, there will, over time, be more good days. I still feel crap, but there is always tomorrow. Please join me in asking the universe and my body to be a bit more kind to me.