The F word

One would have thought, dear readers of my blog, that I would be wise to it by now.

One would imagine that I would re-read my posts, check through my diary, and say "ah, last month at this part of my cycle I was in bed for 2 days, so I shall therefore be prepared".

No. The f word comes to bite every month, without fail, and I am always annoyed by it.

Fatigue.

Immense, all-consuming exhaustion. Bone aching, head to toe, marrow-draining tiredness. The kind that rest and sleep don't quench; this is a body in pain, an inner dis-ease of dis-order, the kind that reminds me that ease and order are, for the moment, a million miles away.

This kind of fatigue is non-negotiable, calendar gate crashing and whole-heartedly shit. I have a life to live, children to play with, work to do, runs to train for, but no - endometriosis says I must be in bed, dreaming with the familiar hallucinations of white-hot pain.

Nudge me in a month's time. I always forget.