Whirlwind of Kleenex

I have found (after careful and long study) that physical illness centers me, in an odd sort of way. I am never so aware of my body as when it ceases to work properly. I concentrate on every breath I exhale through my mouth, on every aching joint that I move, on every swallow down my swollen throat. I sleep more, and am in bed for ridiculously long periods of time. I move slower.

I am aware of my mind, too, and the convoluted circles it runs. I want to be pitied when I am sick, to be coddled. At the same time, I want people to admire me for how well I go about the day, for how much I don't complain. Again, ridiculous.

Wellness is such a delicate equilibrium. I wish I hadn't lost it.