Cryptophasia

I’ve been sick for almost a week now due to staying in a casino for a maximum of 30 minutes, and things have not been well. It was a gateway for my body to have high-fever, migraine, sore throat, colds, cough, and for my arthritis to trigger (I know, I know… I’m old lol). I missed some work because of it, but I was able to catch up on a bit of reading, because I had to practically force myself to not work from home during that period. 

I refused to look at my e-mails, pick up a book about work, do paperworks - if I wanted to truly heal, I’d have to do it full time. My sister pointed out that I had a very weak immune system. It’s as if all these minor illnesses strategically planned to invade my body, and invade they have - not knowing that their impact as a collective would be so… monumental. 

And during the time I was bedridden (I could not get up for the life of me, lest my head wobbles off my head), despite the dull headache, I was able to think.

If I remember correctly, Carl Jung may have written something about all physical illnesses that spring from man says something about his psychological condition. Does it, perhaps, mean the same for me? I’m not exactly on my best mental state (since when have I ever), and it doesn’t help that the past months have been the worst for me. To distract myself, I focused on work twice, thrice as I would normally do, and it exhausted me. I would usually be sick on Friday nights, and feel well on Sunday evenings. It became a routine. 

Good Weekdays. Sick Weekends.

But then, did that unfateful night in the casino trigger all these illnesses? Did they represent my mental welfare? Did it become too much it had to manifest physically? I don’t know. Maybe. But for now, I’m going to nurse myself a bit and go to rest.

It took me three hours to get up from bed this morning.

The feeling was all too familiar– my heart and chest felt as though it was enveloped in something so inescapable, with the former trying to beat its way through it. But of course, it doesn’t. To move would worsen everything. So I lay still, unable to sleep– but I wasn’t sure what happened in those hours, I may have drifted to sleep– but everything felt continuous and I couldn’t remember anything but the tightness in my chest.

I am tired of feeling this way everyday. Fighting off anxiety without the aid of medicines is extremely hard. I once had been on valiums, courtesy of one of my instructors, but it did more harm than good. I’m afraid it has created tiny holes in my memory, where some things seem irretrievable even when I know they used to be there. I was only on them for 3 months or so.

I need a friend, but I’m afraid of being labelled as someone who indulges in her feelings. But sometimes, these feelings come with a purpose– they often inspire me to create a drawing, but I lament at how sad my drawings have become. How dark, deep and tangled– yet so exposed with all it’s– or mine’s– vulnerability. I love them, but at the same time I loathe how they expose so much about me.

I hate it.