I hate being ill. Then again, does anyone actually enjoy feeling like rubbish? I get sick twice every year: once in the summer, once in late autumn. It’s a cycle that runs like clockwork. And I know why I started feeling a little bit “wrong” yesterday – I’ve had a very stressful couple of weeks and my body has reached its limit. I’m run down, I haven’t been sleeping as well as I should be, and I’ve been getting more and more wound up by things. Big things. Little things. Things that shouldn’t matter. Things that do. And everything’s added up to make my body say “no more”.
So now I’m sitting here, coughing slightly, my throat feeling scratchy, nose not exactly streaming but far from right, and I feel shaky and horrible. But this is one of those rubbish illnesses at the moment, with a combination of small symptoms working together to fell me. It doesn’t feel like I’m eating razor blades when I swallow. My head isn’t splitting open like it’s Geppetto’s new project. When I blow my nose, it’s not like I’m breaking a dam. Nonetheless, the fractions present of each of these conditions is making me feel rather sorry for myself. I need a very, very early night, and have to hope that this is just a 24 hour thing.
Though I do have to laugh that I can’t even do illness right.