I’ve been having trouble getting up this past week. Maybe it’s my hormones, maybe it’s the full moon, maybe it’s my autism, maybe it’s the dragging winter. Whatever the reason, it feels like my engine hasn’t started in days; even when I’ve made it out of bed, making it to my computer is another task altogether, because I know I will end up staring at a screen for hours trying to make something happen. That sound of the engine turning over and over, for hours on end. On the dial of dysfunction, mine is currently at the level where admin has piled up on my desk and in my inbox and there is so much trash to take out that I can’t even bring myself to look at any of it.
This happens, I know, and not just to me. I’ve cycled through weeks like this before, and at some point my pilot light switches back on and things start running smoothly again. Still, I’ve spent a few days being hard on myself for finding the most basic routine things so hard. “Wow, you really can’t do anything, huh.” It’s less a criticism than an observation, but a kinder inner voice might be less inclined to point out the bleedin’ obvious and ask what I need instead.
Now, I’m trying to accept this is where I’m at for the time being, while doing what I can to facilitate a gentle slide through the days. Stalling is not an option, however, so I’m making a point of booking early morning workouts to force me out of bed even before it’s light. Like this, I’ll keep pushing the car til it can run on its own.
I tried a new class this morning: cardio barre. It was horrible in the way that makes you feel so great and virtuous afterward. While we were still in the awful part, the part where it felt like I was remembering everything I’d ever been mad at, the instructor dropped the kind of fitness instructor wisdom that would be annoying if it wasn’t exactly what I needed to hear:
“If it’s hard, let it be hard. Don’t pretend it’s not happening.”
Very well. It is hard, and it is happening.
Ugh (til it isn’t),