You know how sometimes you feel ground down to the barest possible nub of yourself due to spending the past 75,000 days in a row in a fibro flare-up, but you drag yourself to physical therapy anyway to be proactive in taking responsibility for managing your health, only to have your therapist gently inform you that, according to the surveys you’ve periodically filled out to assess your progress, you’re actually doing worse than you were when you started 3 months ago?
So you go home and decide to declutter a little bit more of the guest room and then put the meat on to marinate for dinner so you can experience some feelings of accomplishment? And then your husband calls while you’re in the kitchen so you’re bragging to him about what you’ve done so far today, but then you smell something really odd, whip around, and then yell, “I have to call you back!”?
Which you do, after a couple of minutes and a flurry of activity, and your reassurance that everything is now OK takes the form of statements like, “Don’t worry-it was only a small fire.”?
Yeah. Me too.
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