Breathe, and shake it off

As I've mentioned before, I'm not someone who handles being injured well. I don't handle being housebound and forced into rest time either. But I've been doing my best, and I think I'm getting better. After all, why fight a battle that I already know I can't win? Your body will only take you fudging with it for so long, and it has more than a few creative tricks for forcing your brain into submission.

My patience has been even further tested with an outbreak of upset stomachs in my household, among all the cats. Maybe it's a bug, or maybe it's the different food that we gave them. I don't think I even want to know or care. All I know is that since last night, I've been picking up piles of vomit from the carpet, as well as cleaning out pile after pile of stinky, runny, mushy poo from every single litter box, which I'd had to first bury and then let sit to dry for a while before they were even scoopable. This morning, the first thing I did was scrubbing diarrhea off the carpet, and trust me, it wasn't a little bit either. And in my weakened physical state, I'm much much less able to withstand stench and gross. It was as if everywhere I looked, there were things for me to do, things that my body isn't up for doing, things that I don't want to do, things that still need to be done, adding onto themselves and taunting me. And I so wanted to get out of the house sooner. I wanted to go to the barn and spend some time with Candy. I've been missing my equine best friend and needing horse time, ironic as that might sound. I wanted to comfort her more and take care of her, give her the TLC that she would otherwise be missing from my prolonged absence, soak her hooves, feed her apples, brush out her mane and tail, check on her rain rot spots and girth itches. This not being able to set foot outside my apartment without running out of breath within minutes has been driving me up every wall imaginable. On top of Ezra having been sick with a cold since the day of my accident as well, and him still having to go to work during the day and thus leaving me home alone, fending for myself, with a bunch of cats barfing and crapping up the whole place, I was worn thin. My most hated feeling in the world of helplessness began creeping up and lifting its pathetic little head, and I nearly broke down and cried again.

And then, it hit me. I remembered to breathe, and told myself to do so. 

So I breathed, and breathed, and breathed some more. I cleaned up the best I could, knowing I did my best. I turned on all the Scentsy warmers and let the aroma of melted wax slowly permeate the apartment, gradually filtering out the smell of poo. I heated up some leftovers for lunch, ate, and let the food settle in my stomach. I then filled the cats' bowls with their lunch. I sat down in front of the computer, opened my music folder, and put on Taylor Swift's "1989". 

Shake it off. Keep breathing. Shake it off. It'll be all right. Everything will turn out fine. Breathe, be patient, calm down. I will get better, so will the cats, and Ezra, too.

I resigned myself to stay at home and take it easy for another full day today, hoping to regain more energy to stop by the barn tomorrow. Pushing myself never worked in the past, so I'm trying a different approach this time, all the while remembering to breathe, and shake it off. This is me being considerate and kind to myself, loving and respecting my body. Breathe, shake it off.

Thank you, Taylor, for my fight song, by the way!