This past week has been one of those you would (with good reason) call a week of hell.
It started off with work. Earlier this year, I moved into a new role which is proving out to be more emotionally challenging than I had ever expected. Most mornings I wake up feeling dread, insecure and frightened at the prospect of facing the day. It probably sounds much worse than it truly is but I think that part of the issue is that for the first time in my life I am confronted with the reality that I am not as strong as I've always thought I was. I wont go into the specifics of the role itself and for the sake of being fair, I should also mention that overcoming challenges now feel like winning Olympic medals compared to anything I've ever done before, but it's still a work in progress.
And this week in particular was one of those where you just want to crawl in a hole and forget about the world, better yet, hope that the wold forgets about you.
It didn't help that in the middle of it all, I was, ejem, turning 33. As someone rightly pointed out to me the other day, Jesus Christ was that age when he was crucified.
Great.
I didn't mind turning 30, it actually turned out to be a really good year for me. I was the happiest, healthiest and fittest I've ever been. I was running 8-10K at the gym 4 times a week, I was traveling like mad, I was enjoying my job and we had a good life in Paris.
Fast forward to 3 years later and things seemed to have gone downhill for some reason. I am no longer working out as much (or as often) as I should, we are still traveling like mad but no longer enjoying it as before (post to come on that), work, well, you read the above, and we have now been living in London for 2 years without much to show for it.
Don't get me wrong, life is still good. We are both still healthy, thankfully have good jobs, are still happy in our relationship and don't really have much to complain about.
But still, it just feels like at 33 I should be feeling better than I was at 30, not worse, right? Otherwise, does this mean the the road is just downwards from here on..... ?
Then again, I might have fibbed a little in my previous paragraphs.
I am not exactly healthy. Ever since moving to the UK I have been getting sicker more often and for longer periods of time than ever before in my life. I have a growing certainty that it's because this country hates my guts but Hubby doesn't believe me.
But allow me to present the evidence:
Exhibit A: I NEVER used to have allergies. Of any kind. In Paris things like dust, cats or pollen had no effect on me whatsoever. Now, all three are effectively considered toxic in my book. Ever since I moved here, daffodils and open windows have become my worst enemies. I now literally PANIC if I leave the house without a pack or two of tissues in my bag. I am always having an allergic reaction to everything. In the past 18 months I have established a close and friendly relationship with pals Benadryl and Clarytin....
Exhibit B: In this country I am officially notified of the changing of the seasons by my body shutting down. Completely. The first time it happened was back in Spring when Summer creeped upon us without any warning and had me for the first time in my career having to ask for sick days off. Head ached beyond recognition, muscles shivered and clamped without permission and nose and eyes became nuclear reactors void of any mercy. I was out 5 days. I was similarly informed that Fall had arrived a few days ago and I haven't been able to leave the bed since.
Even for my own birthday party.
Even when one of my best friends who I see once a year (if I'm lucky) is in town for only 4 days.
Even when.... well... you get the picture.
Based on the above, you too would think this country has a secret master plan to drive you away wouldn't you?
As I said, this was a week of moaning and groaning.
Hopefully next week will be better. After all, it's a whole three months before the season changes again.
Fned.
It started off with work. Earlier this year, I moved into a new role which is proving out to be more emotionally challenging than I had ever expected. Most mornings I wake up feeling dread, insecure and frightened at the prospect of facing the day. It probably sounds much worse than it truly is but I think that part of the issue is that for the first time in my life I am confronted with the reality that I am not as strong as I've always thought I was. I wont go into the specifics of the role itself and for the sake of being fair, I should also mention that overcoming challenges now feel like winning Olympic medals compared to anything I've ever done before, but it's still a work in progress.
And this week in particular was one of those where you just want to crawl in a hole and forget about the world, better yet, hope that the wold forgets about you.
It didn't help that in the middle of it all, I was, ejem, turning 33. As someone rightly pointed out to me the other day, Jesus Christ was that age when he was crucified.
Great.
I didn't mind turning 30, it actually turned out to be a really good year for me. I was the happiest, healthiest and fittest I've ever been. I was running 8-10K at the gym 4 times a week, I was traveling like mad, I was enjoying my job and we had a good life in Paris.
Fast forward to 3 years later and things seemed to have gone downhill for some reason. I am no longer working out as much (or as often) as I should, we are still traveling like mad but no longer enjoying it as before (post to come on that), work, well, you read the above, and we have now been living in London for 2 years without much to show for it.
Don't get me wrong, life is still good. We are both still healthy, thankfully have good jobs, are still happy in our relationship and don't really have much to complain about.
But still, it just feels like at 33 I should be feeling better than I was at 30, not worse, right? Otherwise, does this mean the the road is just downwards from here on..... ?
Then again, I might have fibbed a little in my previous paragraphs.
I am not exactly healthy. Ever since moving to the UK I have been getting sicker more often and for longer periods of time than ever before in my life. I have a growing certainty that it's because this country hates my guts but Hubby doesn't believe me.
But allow me to present the evidence:
Exhibit A: I NEVER used to have allergies. Of any kind. In Paris things like dust, cats or pollen had no effect on me whatsoever. Now, all three are effectively considered toxic in my book. Ever since I moved here, daffodils and open windows have become my worst enemies. I now literally PANIC if I leave the house without a pack or two of tissues in my bag. I am always having an allergic reaction to everything. In the past 18 months I have established a close and friendly relationship with pals Benadryl and Clarytin....
Exhibit B: In this country I am officially notified of the changing of the seasons by my body shutting down. Completely. The first time it happened was back in Spring when Summer creeped upon us without any warning and had me for the first time in my career having to ask for sick days off. Head ached beyond recognition, muscles shivered and clamped without permission and nose and eyes became nuclear reactors void of any mercy. I was out 5 days. I was similarly informed that Fall had arrived a few days ago and I haven't been able to leave the bed since.
Even for my own birthday party.
Even when one of my best friends who I see once a year (if I'm lucky) is in town for only 4 days.
Even when.... well... you get the picture.
Based on the above, you too would think this country has a secret master plan to drive you away wouldn't you?
As I said, this was a week of moaning and groaning.
Hopefully next week will be better. After all, it's a whole three months before the season changes again.
Fned.
3 comments:
Try thinking good thoughts instead of bad ones like the ones you're having ("the country hates your guts"). Do the things you used to do to stay fit. Enjoy life in London. Hopefully that will help to change things for the better and you will be feeling better soon, both physically and mentally.
Last month it was also pointed out to me that I was as old as Christ had been when crucified. This information was imparted publicly from the stage right before my friend sang Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life".
It was a nice gesture. Bold, coming from someone not comfortable with the public humiliation of karaoke.
But also the result of the same friend seizing the reins of what had become my birthday celebration. I had said if I was to do anything I wanted to play miniature golf. We never played miniature golf. I had to drink brightly colored drinks with parasols in them.
Everything was fine despite the lack of miniature golf in my life but it did serve as a reminder that even at age 33, the year Christ kicked off his religion that persists to this day, I was still not in control of my own destiny.
But I have at least been spared the development of allergies and seasonal sickness. My friend who dismissed miniature golf in lieu of karaoke and parasols is British. It could be a cursed isle afterall.
Marzipan: Thanks girl, I think my previous post shows how bad of a mood being sick puts me in. I do enjoy London (especially in lovely weather like today!!) so hopefully the week of moaning is over for a long while! :-) x
Catharticaggression: your comment seriously made me LMFAO!! a) big fat Thank you. b)get yourself to a miniature golf green pronto! and c) relieved to learn I'm not the only one out there who feels "not in control of her own destiny" despite the fact that I've had 33 years to work on this!!! Many thanks again. x
Fned.
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