I started to write this post last night, but I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. Getting through Christmas drained me of every last bit of physical and mental energy.
I planned to write about the relief that Christmas was finally over and how I plan to get through the rest of this week. But instead I had a bad night and I need to get that off my chest first…
I had been so looking forward to today, a day to finally have some time alone to relax and recharge. A day to wear some comfy clothes, light some candles and curl up on the sofa with a new book. I still plan to do that, but it will be ruined by the bad cold I have managed to acquire.
I went to bed as soon as the last of our family left. My head throbbed, my throat felt like cut glass, one moment I boiled, the next I froze. I suffer from panic attacks at night anyway, convinced me heart will give up on me in the night. Being ill did nothing to help this, and I had a rough night where I barely slept, but instead lay listening to and feeling every heartbeat.
Convinced that the fever would kill me, I managed to drink a little of the nutritional milkshakes I have prescribed. That calmed me a little and I slept for a while. In the light of morning I feel silly. And all I can think of is how I shouldn’t have had those few sips of milkshake as my weight is up 0.1kg now.
I know it’s irrational. I did what I had to to get through the night. Anorexia at night is somehow a different beast to the day-time illness. I curse myself a night for not eating more in the day, and promise myself that tomorrow I will have more so that I can get through the night without panicking that tonight will be the night I die. But each morning I get up, think about how silly I was being the night before, and return to my usual restrictive diet. This illness is pure madness.