There is a beautiful time of day. It lasts about an hour. It falls after I have come home from work, after the boys’ homework has been checked, but before I have to start dinner, and before grading and lesson planning. Let’s call this time, “STFU Time.”
During STFU Time, I put the dogs outside and encourage my children to stare at a screen of some kind. I crawl into bed and have an hour nap. It is necessary, needed, and precarious. It doesn’t take much to make STFU Time fail, but it is always worth a try.
My mom has called me three times in the last four days. She has caught me during STFU Time each time. I’m in that groggy state where I forget to lie when she asks if I’m in bed. When she called today, she was so annoyed at my laziness that she wouldn’t talk to me and passed the phone to my dad. The rest of the day I felt the urge to call her back and tell her I’m in the middle of a med switch, that being a high school teacher is a tad tiring, I’m fighting off another depressive episode, and a bunch of other reasons to justify myself because I feel so guilty. I wish she would ask me questions or maybe just google some shit.
But then I remember she has said the following things to me recently:
“You need to just get over this.”
“Your husband must be tired of all this by now.”
“You need to pull yourself together.”
“Don’t your boys miss you while you are always in bed?”
“You’ll feel better if you go out for a walk.”
Then I don’t feel so bad anymore. I can’t add feeling guilty about being ill to my list of reasons that I’m feeling ill.