I have lost the ability to think. My mind has scattered in so many directions that it can't form one cohesive thought. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing with my day. What household tasks need to be done. What errands need to be run. How to form a proper sentence.
All I know is the physical - that I'm tired; I'm hungry; I feel weighed down and hollow.
I haven't eaten in eighteen hours, which could have a lot to do with it. I haven't eaten much in a week, which could have more to do with it. The nausea has to go away soon, doesn't it? I find myself not caring about food, forgetting that feeding myself is important. Incredibly dangerous, that. How easy it would be to slip back into old, old ways of ignoring the need to nourish my body.
So I eat. And feel worse.
So I rest. And feel worse.
Last week was spent with on-and-off sick kids, and any arrangement of other people's kids in my care. I think I was sick on Thursday, but it was difficult to tell considering the nausea and headache that are now my norm. I did nothing last week. Nothing beyond what needed to be done. We didn't go for walks. I spent too much time laying in bed reading to children, and to myself. When I don't move, my body becomes unhappy. This week, I pay for it with no energy, a painful, painful back, and an inability to think.
All the kids are tired and cranky today, which is not helpful to my own tired and cranky situation. I want to go OUT. Walk. Enjoy the day. They want to read, read, read. Sew things and create things and build things. Inside. It's too small inside. I need to move, to walk, to not be tempted by comfy resting places of doom.
In an hour, out we'll go, despite any protestations. I'll lure them there with popsicles if necessary. We'll have a scavenger hunt of sorts as we walk, looking for nests and animal-shaped clouds and crocodiles and all the colors of the rainbow. Perhaps I'll find the antidote to blanknicity along the way, too. And we'll all feel better.