Relaxation is defined as being abatement or relief from mental and physical effort, work, etc., and while I totally understand the meaning in a logical fashion, I am absolutely fucking terrible at applying it to myself. This past week while I was silent on the blogspace, I was attempting to partake in effort abating activities since my doctors told me to practise the “art of relaxation,” and let me tell you, folx, if they offered platinum medals for people who are absolutely inept at this so-called art, I’d win them all. ALL. Every bloody one.
With less than three weeks until I get carved up like a holiday turducken, relaxing and resting are two things that I am supposed to get really chummy with. But here’s the issue that I have with it. Asking me to rest and unwind (another word I loathe) is like asking me to be bed-mates with Shelob. There’s just no way in all the Seven Hells that’s going to work.
My biggest issue with trying to practise the two Rs with a side of U is that I get ridiculously bored. My brain is one that must be fully engaged and challenged pretty much whenever possible, or the boredom toxins seep into my veins and basically poison my mental health. I’m not sure if I should blame my ADHD, my neurodivergence, or something else. My doctors tried to explain it to me in a scientific way with examples of high-IQ individuals who have autism, but it seemed like a bunch of poppycock to me. Again, I understood it logically, more so considering that I am the exact sort of human they were talking about, but in reality, those examples and explanations don’t mean fucking shite to me if they can’t help me out (which was the purpose of them being presented to me to begin with). At the end of the day, t’s all blasé bollucks to me, the relaxing gig I mean.
If this past week and a half is any indication, my recovery is going to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to undergo. I remember when I got into a car accident about five years ago. I was hospitalised and treated for internal bleeding. Doctors told me to stay in bed for a few days (at said hospital). When I woke up after (most) of the drugs wore off, I snuck out. Of course, Madame Gabs (who was a new chum at the time) and my cousin (who’s car I crashed, although in my defence, it was the car or the deer, so I chose to save the deer; the car was a candy apple red Porsche GT3… yeah, I’m never gonna live that down) practically murdered me. The point of re-living this tragically hilarious (in hindsight) event is to say that if internal bleeding couldn’t keep my arse in bed, will a cracked sternum and dissected heart really do it?
Now, I’ve been told of the many phenomenal activities that can be done from bed to prevent such intense, agonising bouts of the B word, but they haven’t really been helping me. My reading rut actually became enflamed, so much so that I could only read about five pages on a good day. I tried watching anime, but my mind started to wander, and I couldn’t focus on it at all. I even turned the subtitles off so they wouldn’t be distracting and that didn’t help either (it did, however, help me notice how cringey some of the localisation can be with certain subtitles, yikes). Video games have probably been the only reprieve from “B” that I’ve gotten thus far, but even then, it was virtually impossible to stay engaged for more than an hour at a time. Once those sixty minutes whipped on by, my fingers started itching for different sorts action (not like that, you naughty naughty deviant).
So… yeah… Fuck relaxing and resting and unwinding. Fuck it all as it shall inevitably lead to my getting fucked as well, and not in the fun ways, not that I’d really be into that being asexual and all (unless it’s with Lucy Liu; damn, I love her…).
My biggest worry has gone from surviving the surgery to surviving the recovery. My mind becomes jumbled with overbearing anxiety whenever I think about the two to three months that I shall have to spend “taking it easy.” The fancier older sibling of “resting.” I’m just not good at it. I like to stay busy. Very busy. I want my brain stretched into multiple, different directions, to the point where I’m feeling overwhelmed, but challenged and excited simultaneously. A good challenge is the ultimate drug for me. Intellectual stimulation is splendidly sexy (as sexy as something can be to someone who’s quite indifferent to sex… I should probably stop drinking coffee…). While I do have permission to work, it must be from bed, where I get grotesquely restless and sickeningly spasmodic.
Since I am feeling quite desperate, I thought it was time to reach out to y’all. Do any of you struggle with the mind-blowingly, infuriatingly concept of “relaxing” or “resting” or “unwinding”? Do you have any solutions or advice for how to engage with the Trio of Treachery? Please, help me and the Drama Queen that these things seem to turn my brain into. If I can’t find common ground with Mistress Rest, I’m sure that the people who shall be helping to take care of me will probably murder me in my sleep, or via my soup. I’d like to avoid that since I do have some bitching awesome post-surgery plans and aspirations I need to achieve. That, and… well… I’m not quite keen on getting murdered just yet. At least not via pillow or spoon (although the spoon route would be fucking funny—and somewhat kinky—so long as it didn’t involve consumption of soupy substances).
In the meantime, I’m going to be a rebel and a bonafide delinquent, the ultimate rule-breaking bloke around—I’m going be a workaholic again. What can I say, I love living life on the edge of my butcher’s knife, er, pen. Same difference. But please, if you have any advice for me, share them! I’m as desperate for suggestions as Darayavahoush is for Nahri’s love and approval.