Self-care is tiring
In which I struggle with the everyday
I turn 37 this year, which is a little bit of a scary thought. It's not really about aging, but the fear is that "37" is such a big number in my head, but I still feel like I haven't cracked the code on how to take care of myself just yet. Not enough just to get by, but really giving myself and my body the best shot at being its "optimal" iteration.
By self-care, I don't even mean weekly bubble baths for relaxation or like, lighting 7 million candles, or spraying my linens with something perfumed. I don't even remember to make the bed half the time, because as soon as I get up to do something, I want to just get back into it.
And, look, it's not for the lack of trying. I have bought into countless systems that promise organisation and methods that guarantee better results for productivity. Meanwhile, I'm just trying to talk myself into getting out of bed to pee because I really need to. (Remember that episode of Euphoria where Rue had that internal battle about literally going to pee? That's me a lot of the time.)
It's easier to rot in bed, of course, and I know that in the long run, it's not what's going to make me feel good about myself. I know that starting your day with the infamous morning pages (writing 3 pages in longhand in the morning is really hard and hurts, by the way) and a morning workout or whatever is probably going to make you feel better as the day goes on, but I am a slave to my basest desires most days.
And my basest desire is often just to lie in bed and ignore the things I should be doing. This leads to a lot of internal battles, to be sure, and it makes my anxiety worse. But the thing about having mental health issues is that they're really hard to push through, especially when you're in the trenches. I'm not going to "take care of myself" when all I want to do is sob.
Having a job onsite helped because I was expected to show up at the office between 7 and 10 a.m. And then I get to go home after eight hours, and then figure out if I can be bothered to cook and clean or if it's time for "snack dinner", which is something my sister's boyfriend's son calls eating crisps in bed instead of having a meal. I feel a bit lame that I need external structures and systems to get myself out of bed. I haven't been going to the studio as much, for instance, and I know that's something I wanted to do more of and partly why I left my job to be able to do. And yet.
Being your own manager is hard. Especially if that manager is really good at making excuses.
I've been trying to incorporate things like habit trackers since I first discovered what a Bullet Journal was in the early 2010s or something, and I still don't remember to take my medication every day. I, for the life of me, cannot bring myself to exercise. I know endorphins aren't a myth, but I've just never felt enough of them coursing through my body to feel good about exercising. I also don't like it when other people, who only care about me and want what's best for me so I'm healthy, tell me to do some exercise. It makes me want to rot in bed more. I am a people pleaser, but also I resist what is genuinely helpful advice.
The thing I have been doing a lot more is reading and writing, which are two things I've not been able to do as much as when I was younger. I'd not been reading, because I have somehow shrunk my attention span into an embarrassing length of time. I'd not been writing, because I find myself second-guessing the things I want to say, and if they're things that are even worth saying.
I started writing about my life when I was 14 because my best friend at the time started blogging (on DeadJournal first) and I loved reading about other people's lives. I remember begging for a LiveJournal invitation, because you could set an account up with an invite. My first username was an Egyptian name a friend from high school decided to give to me. I remember joining communities on LJ and making entries just to say "hi, I'm new."
Writing stuff online was such a big part of my life and, in a way, remains so. I still assert that the advent of Instagram carousels and long-form captions really fucked up how we interact on spaces outside of these social networks. Every couple of years, people lament the demise of blogs, but really, people still write; it's just that a lot of people have no capacity to engage anymore. Everything is so much easier when they're in one place, which is why I'm still mad that Google Reader died.
But, I get it. I have really have such low energy these days. I'm looking at supplements or eating more whole foods, but it's so hard to incorporate new things that allegedly make your life better when you can't even handle the regular "drink 8 glasses of water" or "stretch a little bit when you wake up." I've gone an astonishing number of days without taking a shower, and that's terrifying to me in a deep way, and yet I don't do anything about that. "I'll do it tomorrow" is what I tell myself ad nauseum.
We often feel sorry about Sisyphus being forced to roll a rock up a hill only for it to roll back down. But, waking up, brushing your teeth, taking a shower, making the bed, deciding on breakfast, lunch, and dinner, doing some form of exercise, making sure the toilet paper is at a healthy stock level, drinking enough water, hoovering the floors, wiping the counters, being a good friend, doing a good job, keeping in touch with your family: these are just some of the baseline things we need to do until we die, while trying to cope with the world burning around us.
"One must imagine Sisyphus happy." I read this for my first philosophy class in 2009. I was 20. I'm 36 now, and have somehow managed to get awarded a research Masters in philosophy, and this is still such an important idea to keep in mind. In the face of all this shit that makes me sad, both inside and outside my body, caring for myself — no matter how minutely — is an act of resistance.
I'm lucky to have a husband that cares about me and how I am. I don't know if I would get out of bed otherwise. I'm lucky that I get these pockets of clarity that snap me out of, at times, all-consuming despair that comes with living in a time and place where basic human rights seem to be out of reach. Persisting despite all of this is an act of hope. Despite all the things that make me feel alone and hopeless and sad, the fact that I still do all of these things is a signal that I still want to be here.
I feel like I could've written this very post four years ago, when I turned 37. 37's also such a weird liminal age. I know exercise is tough when you're in the trenches, but one thing that's really helped me crawl out of my worst depressive episodes has been my daily morning walks. I feel like my mental health hinges on them, even until now. 40 minutes in the morning, preferably in a nice park where you're surrounded by greenery. Sending you love, Carina. Glad you're writing on here again.💗
Glad you're hanging on to hope despite how hard it is Miss Karina, and I'm also glad to be able to read your writings again. Been a fan ever since your Make-Up Blogging days, and if you're second guessing to write because you feel that people don't need to hear what to say, just know that I (an Internet rando) am really looking forward to the things you write.