Yeah, I know, I haven’t posted since last week, but I’ve just been feeling so craptastic that I never got around to writing the entry I intended to about the other f-word (I promise, I will write it, just maybe not this week).
This is one of those weeks when I really hate how much my digestive system seems to hate me, one of those weeks when a plain piece of bread or even chicken noodle soup will make me sick.
Dealing with IBS means also dealing with how feeling crappy can really screw with your mental processes (especially when you’re not getting great sleep, partly due to the feline doc who’s been so concerned about me that he keeps tapping my shoulder to make sure I’m OK). It means letting things slip by that you ordinarily wouldn’t (you should have seen my first page proof today–there was much bleeding there … but at least I caught the misspelling of Dickson Street before I ever sent the column–all of Fayetteville would love to make fun of us for printing probably its most famous street as Dixon).
It means sometimes having to do things more than once because you forgot to hit “save,” or you managed to let everything else get ahead of you and failed in responsibilities you never failed to fulfill before. It means forgetting what you were going to get a second after you decided to get it. And it sometimes means forcing yourself to eat at least enough for your brain to function and for your blood sugar to stay stable. Oh, joy!
So when I feel like this, I know I have to pull myself out of it before I tumble deeper in (normally it’s just dark humor … in the abyss, it’s just dark). That’s when I employ fuzzy-belly therapy (mostly whether Luke wants to help or not) …
… or I look at things from a new perspective …
… or just let the sun hit my face …
… but if all that fails, there’s always duck butts (there really should be prescriptions for that). If you can’t laugh at a duck butt, you’re in serious trouble.
Serenity is a fuzzy belly 