What’s life like with Epstein-Barr, you ask?
Okay, so you didn’t ask. But I feel like telling you so you can further understand all the levels of my awesomeness. (Yes, there are levels.)
I’m tired a lot. Not I-need-my-morning-mud-baby-kept-me-up-insomnia kind of tired. I know those tired’s like the back o’ my hand. It isn’t even anemia-level-fatigue. This tired trumps even what I believed to be the king daddy of tired – New Baby Tired. It’s all the way down to my bones, reaching its long scaly fingers reaching deep into my brain and making thoughts confusing and muddled.
There are days (like today) when I feel continuously disoriented and dizzy. You know that head rush you sometimes get when you stand up too quickly? Extend it. I can curl up in bed when the toddler naps, but then it’s like the drunk spins, just without the fun prior.
I am eating clean (yeah, so I ate pizza and Samoas last night. Stop spying on me.) and getting my suggested 7 to 8 hours of sleep each night. I’m drinking my water and limiting caffeine. I’m in the taper phase of marathon training, so workouts are down. I go every Friday morning for my B12 shots, which take effect two to three days after administered. I am doing what I am supposed to do.
But sometimes, I wanna do more. And that is when I get frustrated and moody and quite crybabyish. I don’t like running slow. I don’t like sitting in my bed, imagining that the contractors are rolling their eyes over what they believe is pure Peggy Bundy laziness. I don’t like just running and doing squats or not playing outside with my kids or struggling to follow Hubby’s report of his day. I don’t like it because that’s not me.
So some days, I fight a little harder through it. Like today. I guzzled some Energy & Endurance formula (you want samples? I got samples. Email me.) and got to work cleaning. That felt okay so I changed into workout gear and switched on the treadmill. I ran five miles with a 9:45 pace. That felt fan-fuckin’-tastic.
Now it’s post-run, post-shower, post-school pick-up. I’m sneaking an extra cup of coffee and another serving of Shakeology in hopes that’ll get me through the rest of the evening (tonight’s the big Academic Achievement Fair at school and both older kiddos have projects to show off) without growing fangs or flaunting my extreme powers of bitchiness. Because now I am tired and dizzy and dumb again.
I know I’m still in here, somewhere. I see me every time I run and hit that zone. I like that me. I like her a lot. The thing is finding her and keeping her. So I’m working on that, and trying not to over-Google Epstein-Barr (because there is also hypochondriac-me and neurotic-me, and those bitches can agonize). Instead, I’m focusing on the stuff that heals me: sleep, nutrition, simple fitness.
That, and David Boreanaz. He heals me, too.