This is a blog entry at the “crapping out point.”

That stupid disease.
Though not a clinical term, it is the precise locus of when I become cognizant of my disability. It is the moment of petulance wherein I know that I’d better slow down life’s ferris wheel to a more accommodating pace. By generally being what I hatefully consider “lazy.”

I already know that tonight is a wash, and tomorrow I should tidy up my quarters. I have a running list that I can barely handle but right now my full-time job is to handle finding a full-time job, appealing my Medicare denial, appealing my Unemployment Benefit halt, carousing through the legal system and keeping up with my family and friends.

Rightnowthisverysecond, all I can do is handle this body. The fatigue that set in yesterday should’ve been warning enough, but now I fear at least a day or three of physical repercussions from living such a celebratory feigned normalcy. It all comes back to what’s perhaps the most difficult embrace of Multiple Sclerosis — the consistent hesitation of activity. Most people find it odd; I have absorbed so many looks of quixotic judgment. I suppose that’s why my greatest internal battle is the one to prove to (who?) that I am not a lazy person. Yet if “Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired” (Jules Renard) then I will have to live by the idea of doing exactly that.

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