Interesting, sometimes, how our perceptions become our reality without needing conscious thought or action to do so.

When I was growing up, sleeping in, even on the weekends, was seen as “lazy” and a “waste of time.”  And if cleanliness is next to godliness, well, laziness was about as close to the devil as you could get without actually crossing the River Styx.  I’ve always had this weird fear of other people thinking I’m lazy, and I guess I never realized just how pervasive that had become until I really tried to step back and see it almost from outside of myself.

The Musician is my best friend on the planet next to the Scientist.  We clicked immediately when we met, and have a connection like I’ve never seen.  We know each other better than pretty much anyone else, and there’s nothing I can possibly think of that could ruin our friendship.  He is, by his own definition, a total slacker.  I am, by mine, quite driven.  We joke that if we had ever gotten into a “Relationship” that it would be a great six months, but at the end of it, both of us would be battered and bloody, and one would be up on murder charges.  It varies on the day which one of us that was.

On a recent occasion, the Musician and I were talking and I told him that I needed slacker lessons from him.  He laughed at me and said that he wasn’t sure I could get beyond the first lesson.  I scoffed at him, quite indignant at the thought that I would fail at anything, and he pointed out with much amusement that last year, when I was down with H1N1, and could not manage to stand up to go use the bathroom without help, I was still having the kids bring me laundry to fold as I laid in bed.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  Holy hell.  The boy was right.

I have run myself into the ground enough that I can barely see daylight, and it is doing some damage to me.  Question in, do I even want to contemplate the long term effects?  Probably not.

This weekend, I think I hit that wall where your body just says, “Enough, goddammit.”  I slept roughly 11 hours Friday night into Saturday morning.  Saturday was busy; lots to get done and handle.  I went to bed late that evening, and was up around 9 on Sunday for about 8 hours then.  But when we got home from visiting the Professor at college around 3:30, I was exhausted.  The Scientist mentioned that he needed a nap, and I agreed.  We passed out for about 90 minutes.  From 5 til 6:45, I made dinner, put some laundry away, watched some football, and then realized that I felt exhausted.  All I could think was, “W-t-f, Mate?”  (To the people who don’t get the reference, it can be found in one of our family’s favorite videos.)  So I curled up again, and was out cold immediately.  The Scientist woke me up to take my meds at 11, which I greatly appreciated, and then I was, again, out like a light.  I woke up a few times during the night, but slept mostly til 5:30 when the alarm rudely informed me that it was Monday morning.

At first, when I started thinking about how much I’d slept, I was almost alarmed, and the guilt crept in.  “Holy crap, you’re a lazy lout!”  “What a total waste of time!  Look at all the stuff you didn’t get done!”  But for whatever reason, an allegory of sorts wound its way into my brain instead: Let’s say you go to the shelter and you get a dog.  You don’t want a puppy; too much work.  So you find this older dog with a sweet personality, and laid back nature.  The shelter guy warns you that he’s a little lame in one leg and has a few minor health issues, but he’s a good dog.  Off you go home with your new best friend.  Once you get home, do you then force the dog to run miles every day, until he is limping in pain, depressed from exhaustion, deprived of time to heal and rest…

I had to stop the train of thought right there because the mere idea of abuse to an animal makes me physically ill, and starts me crying, which really screws with my sinuses.  But if thinking of that kind of treatment to a dog causes me such anguish, how in the hell do I justify doing exactly that to myself?  For so long, I have perceived my need for rest, which is greater than some people’s (The Scientist and the kids, for examples), as a sign of weakness, or a character flaw.  My body is flawed indeed, and it doesn’t work like everyone else’s.  But should that detract from my worth as a human being?  At one time, I would’ve hesitated before answering.  On the one hand, the obvious answer is a blustering, “Of course not!  DUH!” but actions speak louder than words, don’t they?  And my actions wouldn’t have supported those words.

So we’ll see if I can keep on this path; my body needs it, and really, so does my spirit.  If I destroy my body with constant demands and no restitution, I’ll be too broken to enjoy my islands when I get there.  That would be the greatest travesty of all!  =)

Tonight, the Ambassador’s away game has been rained out.  So I’ll pick him up from school, go visit my mom, watching the Ambassador carefully, as Golden Boy is in residence with my mother, and then head home.  We’ll figure out dinner, and then I’m done.  Maybe I’ll work on the baby quilt, maybe I’ll edit some pics that have been waiting for me, maybe I’ll read, or maybe I’ll just curl up in bed and watch some TV before going to sleep.  But whatever I choose, I’ll make sure it’s a restful end to a long, stressful, busy, rainy day.