$8.65
That’s what it costs to get the children fed on a chronically bad morning. I’ll confess I am chronically ill. Tomorrow I will chronically deny it and tell you I’m fine. Today I admit it. Not as an excuse. It really is a bad day. I’m chronically fatigued and chronically in pain.
Especially my left second toe. It hurts so bad I cannot bear for the sheets or socks to touch it. And I chronically wonder if I’m alone. I chronically wonder if I can make it funny. And I chronically wonder if I will feel better tomorrow.
It isn’t funny. I chronically question why I’m laughing. I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook thanks to chronic flashback notices. I saw a flashback of my first half-marathon. Sigh. I have traveled 1,000 miles in five years flat on my back. Well, four years. It was a year after that I tore my calf muscle and got plantar fasciitis. And that started my descent into chronic.
Chronic steroid injections were the first culprit. But it doesn’t matter because here I am. Chronic. Chronically tired. Chronically weak. Chronically grumpy. Chronically chubby. Chronically blah.
And I want to be chronically comfortable. Chronically fit. Chronically energized. I just am not. And it’s is getting cold out. I have the chronic metabolism of a Barbie and the body temperature to match. I chronically dread the change of seasons. I’m chronically told I don’t look sick. And I have my loves that help get me through, and they know lots about what plagues me, and I chronically seek their wisdoms. And then I get a chronic headache. And all I want to do is sleep and eat processed carbohydrates. And the chronic circle continues.
And I feel chronically guilty because it’s not cancer, although at one point doctors thought it was. And I feel chronically sad that I chronically complain. And I’m convinced some days my family is sick of me.
Original article and pictures take themighty.com site
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