![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
It's something I see on the blogs & tweets & statuses of people w/chronic illness. I ran across it today in a cooking blog, but in the context of the post it didn't make sense.
"It's an easy dish, but not one I can make if I run out of spoons". Wtf is up w/that? Can't you just wash your damned spoons?
Because I don't know where it came from & I don't understand it, I finally googled it. "What does it mean when you 'run out of spoons'"?
I ran across The Spoon Theory, by Christine Miserandino. I finally understand the phrase, and her Spoon Theory makes a lot of sense. It's a great way to break down how much a big problem like lupus or fibro affects a person's life. I don't know if I'd ever use that particular phrase, "I've run out of spoons" or "I don't have enough spoons left" because I don't want to have to explain myself every time I say it or use it. But I could probably tell someone, "Look, I am having a no-energy-or-patience day. Don't fuck with me right now". And they might understand enough to not continue poking the bear.
I know that part of my healing process is going to be admitting that sometimes, yes, I am too depressed to do anything. Instead of making excuses for not wanting to go out, not wanting to do anything, not wanting to see people in large groups, maybe even not wanting to go to work, is that I am too depressed. My heart literally isn't in the game, I have no energy, no focus and my frustration levels are too easily agitated to deal with anything beyond staring at the ceiling. I am always telling people that they have to take time to honor their feelings, honor their illness, and honor themselves... but I never allow myself that luxury. I don't have time to honor my emotional state, and what's more, I don't need to honor my emotional state. Because, well, I have no emotional state, I am a robot, and I will go to work no matter how I think I feel.
I don't know if depression could be classified as an 'invisible illness'. I know for me personally, it is. I was a horrible actress in all my high school drama classes. I get stage fright, start stuttering, blow my lines, faint because ooops, I locked my knees, burst out in tears & run off the stage. But in a more improv setting, like work, I am a brilliant performer. No one would know anything was wrong with me. I chat with my coworkers, I bitch at my supervisors, I even occasionally have angry outbursts (like the night before last). In Christine M.'s words, acting at work eats up a lot of my spoons. I have a sit-on-my-ass-and-stare-at-a-computer-for-8-hours-a-night job, but I come home exhausted. I have no energy left for anything. People think I am this wise, centered but slightly dangerous old bear that they can come to when they have a problem. Rob's family doesn't know that anything is 'wrong' with me... I never feel like my depression is serious enough to warrant paying attention to because I get up and go to work, even on days when I feel like there is a ton of thick, gluey, clayey mud on my chest. Rob's probably the only one who sees me with my guard down, and even around him it's not all the way down. Me crunched up bawling in the bathtub with the shower running is me with my guard down, and I only do that when he's not home.
I went to yet another dentist earlier today, one that specializes in people who have dental anxiety... yeah, that went about as well as expected, but they'll give me a 10mg Valium for a cleaning. I don't know if benzos even work on me, but I'll find out on Wednesday. At any rate, after that, to put it in a spoon-like fashion, today I'm about out. I have one very small, tiny rusty spoon left to get to work on. I'm going to have to find more spoons somewhere because tomorrow I've got a therapy appointment and we're seeing Rob's folks to drop off Anton's early Father's Day card & balloons. Which will eat up my spoons for the rest of the week.
"It's an easy dish, but not one I can make if I run out of spoons". Wtf is up w/that? Can't you just wash your damned spoons?
Because I don't know where it came from & I don't understand it, I finally googled it. "What does it mean when you 'run out of spoons'"?
I ran across The Spoon Theory, by Christine Miserandino. I finally understand the phrase, and her Spoon Theory makes a lot of sense. It's a great way to break down how much a big problem like lupus or fibro affects a person's life. I don't know if I'd ever use that particular phrase, "I've run out of spoons" or "I don't have enough spoons left" because I don't want to have to explain myself every time I say it or use it. But I could probably tell someone, "Look, I am having a no-energy-or-patience day. Don't fuck with me right now". And they might understand enough to not continue poking the bear.
I know that part of my healing process is going to be admitting that sometimes, yes, I am too depressed to do anything. Instead of making excuses for not wanting to go out, not wanting to do anything, not wanting to see people in large groups, maybe even not wanting to go to work, is that I am too depressed. My heart literally isn't in the game, I have no energy, no focus and my frustration levels are too easily agitated to deal with anything beyond staring at the ceiling. I am always telling people that they have to take time to honor their feelings, honor their illness, and honor themselves... but I never allow myself that luxury. I don't have time to honor my emotional state, and what's more, I don't need to honor my emotional state. Because, well, I have no emotional state, I am a robot, and I will go to work no matter how I think I feel.
I don't know if depression could be classified as an 'invisible illness'. I know for me personally, it is. I was a horrible actress in all my high school drama classes. I get stage fright, start stuttering, blow my lines, faint because ooops, I locked my knees, burst out in tears & run off the stage. But in a more improv setting, like work, I am a brilliant performer. No one would know anything was wrong with me. I chat with my coworkers, I bitch at my supervisors, I even occasionally have angry outbursts (like the night before last). In Christine M.'s words, acting at work eats up a lot of my spoons. I have a sit-on-my-ass-and-stare-at-a-computer-for-8-hours-a-night job, but I come home exhausted. I have no energy left for anything. People think I am this wise, centered but slightly dangerous old bear that they can come to when they have a problem. Rob's family doesn't know that anything is 'wrong' with me... I never feel like my depression is serious enough to warrant paying attention to because I get up and go to work, even on days when I feel like there is a ton of thick, gluey, clayey mud on my chest. Rob's probably the only one who sees me with my guard down, and even around him it's not all the way down. Me crunched up bawling in the bathtub with the shower running is me with my guard down, and I only do that when he's not home.
I went to yet another dentist earlier today, one that specializes in people who have dental anxiety... yeah, that went about as well as expected, but they'll give me a 10mg Valium for a cleaning. I don't know if benzos even work on me, but I'll find out on Wednesday. At any rate, after that, to put it in a spoon-like fashion, today I'm about out. I have one very small, tiny rusty spoon left to get to work on. I'm going to have to find more spoons somewhere because tomorrow I've got a therapy appointment and we're seeing Rob's folks to drop off Anton's early Father's Day card & balloons. Which will eat up my spoons for the rest of the week.
