Sometimes talking to other people and hearing about their lives can make me feel pretty rubbish about my own. I know that comparison is the thief of joy. But it’s only natural that sometimes I will hear what other people are doing, or the places they’re visiting, or the things they can afford to buy, and it leaves me feeling a bit flat actually.
At the same time as living the dreams of my more severely affected self, my life can feel very, very very small. I have restrictions on every day.
There is a literal smallness. Confined to the house for the vast majority of my days (and even on the days I can leave the house it is only for a maximum of a few hours) there is only a certain level of freedom that a person can feel within that space. I have all my tricks by now 16 years in. You can sit in a different room or in a different chair within the same room and you will get a different viewand be able to trick yourself into thinking things are different to how they had been the day before. But there is still a level of confinement even when well enough to be out of bed.
It just makes me sad sometimes. I sometimes question what it is I’m meant to be doing with my days and with my life. Obviously I endure illness all the time. I have lost track of the amount of hobbies and crafts I have tried to see if they’re a good fit for my symptoms and restrictions. Using social media remains the most accessible.
I read now and again these days, but I really do spend most of my time just waiting for it to be a reasonable time to go to bed and sleep. Feels quite depressing when I really think about it.
I can get a little melancholy like this after being exposed to people and different ways of life (ie. lives that outwardly appear fuller than my own).
But I have much. I have patience and gratitude and empathy. The real things. I mustn’t let the wider world make me forget about that.
IMAGE: Anna with her back to the camera (and the posture of a potato), sitting on the edge of the bed looking out the landing window.
