I’m tired! Actually, tired isn’t the word I’m looking for. Perhaps, exhausted? Nope. Nope, not it. Drained. There we are, that’s the word. I. Am. Drained. There is no gas left in the tank, I’m running on straight fumes at this point. And this isn’t just today or yesterday. This has been slowly coming since the beginning of the year.

I just can’t seem to get control over this serious fatigue. I know that the ulcers in my J-pouch and the pouchitis probably have a lot to do with it. I have absolutely no energy and no time to myself. Hell, the best thing about getting out of town was being able to take a shower and go to the bathroom with the dog or child barging in. Yes, my dog has now begun to plow through my closed bedroom and bathroom doors when my son calls out to me. But it feels like a little more than just mommy blues and woes. It’s more than just my body trying to get back to normal. My colectomy will have it’s 2 year anniversary in a few weeks. I’ve gained weight and my hair is back. My arthritis…well… I need to figure out how to get that under control. But I shouldn’t be this exhausted.

I know I’ve suffered some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after everything that has happened to me over the past few years. My grandma was having surgery the other day and it took everything in my power to keep from crying, vomiting and passing out. ¬†Every time I cross the threshold of a hospital (whether it’s for myself or not), I break out into a sweat, my chest hurts and my heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of my chest. I try to read, meditate, listen to music…but nothing seems to help. The fact that I have visited the hospital almost 10 different times for different reasons since December has had to have some sort of heavy effect on my emotional state.

I’m withdrawn and snappy. I’m tired and absent minded. My room feels claustrophobic at the moment…actually my life is a bit claustrophobic. Then I get frustrated for feeling this way. I feel like I should never have another complaint in my life after the second chance I’ve been given. But here I am sitting with my feet on it’s side because they hurt too much to put to the ground, feeling broken. Where is the relief the pouch was suppose to give? I forgotten that it is not the end all to be all…but damn. I thought at least some of this major stuff would go away. I also thought that after all of this I would be strong enough to silence the constant buzzing of “You’re being dramatic!”, “Stop acting like a b**ch!”, “You felt fine last night.”, “You’re a bad mom who never pays attention to your kid.” or my favorite, “Everyone hurts. Try some tylenol.” . But I can’t block it out. In fact words feel like they are suffocating me and they just keep coming even though I’ve found away to reboot my life, be a full time single mom successfully, work on my own brand and help others with theirs. No they keep coming…usually from the people closest to me. Just when I think I’m winning! I think, I’m beating this stupid disease and I feel empowered, I am knocked back down to earth with the avalanche of realization that I am not as strong as I think I am. Maybe I am not as strong as I thought I was or am or whatever. Maybe, just maybe, this stupid disease and all of it’s baggage has weighed me down to my knees and I’m just too damn tired and weak to get back up.

I’ve been waiting for the sunshine to come through. I heard tale that the sun rises in the east every morning, but it seems that I can not see through my window. When I was in middle of my flare ups I would look at myself in the morning, each morning and repeat, “It’s okay. It’s just one of those days. Tomorrow will be better.” Now I find myself saying, “It’s okay. It’s just one of those weeks. Next week will be better.” Weeks have turned into months and the snowball continues to gather speed and ¬†debris. I’m tired of fighting against my own body. Is this really the rest of my life? Logically, I know I can and will have better moments through out my life. But right now, the sun hasn’t risen and I can’t see in the dark.