Everybody is doing more than me

And I have an endless pile of laundry

As I write this, I am lying tummy-down on my plush mattress, wired and hungry for connection, reaching into the internet-void to speak with the “people” through the Substack.

“This is a POST” my brain says, and my hip replies with a mysterious, what I can only describe as “gooey” wave of pain.

It’s been all noisy and dark in my head, and I've been tangled up there somewhere..

I have a million things I need to be doing. Which does not even include the things I want to be doing. And I am utterly convinced that every single person in this world, literally every body except for me, is doing things.

Oh god, it’s noon and I’m not doing anything, I moan on my day off.

Oh god, she made 40k on her first year writing, I groan on my aimless-Substack-dashboard-scroll.

Honestly, I started this Substack the same way I start off most things: full of excitement and gusto.

And then I petered out.

Funny, no, that living with chronic conditions is what makes a newsletter about living with chronic conditio…