There's this thing about being sick and I'm going to talk about it so you can tell me I'm not all alone in this. Or not. I don't really know. I really want you to tell me that I'm not all alone in this, because when you're sick, you're pretty much all alone unless someone loves you enough to risk whatever horrible disease befalls you to spend time with you. Other than that, it's just an empty house and a lot of Netflix. Well, I've been letting my instant queue build up for a long time anyway.
Here's what happens to me when I get sick. The first day, or what I'll call the "Worlds Crashing Down" period, I spend all of my mental energy convincing myself that I'm not actually getting sick. I just know that if I gargle with the right amount of salt water or use enough Zicam, I'm going to get over it. I'll be the first person to ever beat this flu.
Yeah, no. That doesn't work. The force of my will is not greater than the force of whatever airborne sickness seems to be plaguing my section of the world at any given time. I get sick. It happens.
Then there's the next phase. It involves a lot of water and hopefully some soup. I call it the "I'm Gonna Beat This." Because that's what you think. You think in a day or two, you'll be fresh and ready for the world again. This is not the phase I want to talk about either.
The phase I'm working on right now, and the phase that brought me to this blog, is what I'll call the "Pit of Despair." It's where you can't remember what your life was like when you weren't sick. It's the phase where you wonder if you'll be taking a permanent leave of absence from your job because the idea of ever doing anything mildly exerting again exhausts you enough to make you pull the covers up and start another episode of the animated Spider-Man TV show on Netflix.
That's where I am now. I need you to tell me I'm not alone in this because, well, looking around my empty house, I seem to be alone in this.