A Load of Selfish and Honest Bollocks

 I sometimes find myself wishing (forgive me)
that I could be really, truly ill, for just a little while.
Sometimes, sickness of the body can be a blessing,
designed to take us out of our own actions for a little while,
as a child given a nap.
A good old fashioned bout of fever or flu
or even a really awful, lingering, bronchial sort of thing 
before the reign of penicillan, tylenol, and thwarting fate.

A few weeks spent pale and half unconscious
to let the soup come to boil properly
when it's been lukewarm too long.
It not only bolsters a healthy sense of humility-
not necessarily to any deities, though that is acceptable,
but even the simple wary respect that we are creatures
susceptible to weakness, pain, and possibly death
outside of our own whim.

 It also allows reason for wallowing in self awareness
and ranking emotional priorities.
To be able to gauge exactly how, (or how not),
ones heartstring plucks has its blessings and curses.
Keen appreciation lies with shrewd calculation,
and true gratitude next to casual granted.

I wish this because I want an excuse
 to lapse into nothing more
 than thought and feeling for a little while,
 taking the respite from engagement
 and offering the payment of time and comfort.

Between medicine and artificial neural stimulation,
I wouldn't be ill more than a few days
unless I had something truly heinous,
which would be unwelcome,
but do the job with a heavier hand than I'm hoping for.



The above happened in Africa. I was in the midst of full blown mental dehydration, scraped thin to the nerve and barely holding together but for adrenaline and skype calls, and for the first time in several years I suddenly came down with Strep Throat- in the middle of summer, at that.

I was down for the count for nearly five days, doing nothing but sleep, eat, drink tea, read, and think. I couldn't do anything else. I was too weak, my throat hurt, and I was exhausted to the root. It was just the thing for jet lag, emotional fragility, and mental filing. While I ranted at the Gods, mentally, I was a little bit grateful, too. I had every excuse in the world, perfectly and completely and even publicly justified, to do nothing but recuperate, and it was as much for my mind and soul as my body, which, fittingly enough, embodied the necessary healing.

I feel I am still mentally recuperating, but I feel as though I don't have a "reason". Emotionally speaking, I have many, many reasons. My past summer, and their attendant changes, are at least equivalent to a mental bout of cholera, or at least an emotional broken leg. While at the time I know I enjoyed the cushion of new experience and distraction, I'm still recuperating. I will have days of blissful honeymooning, followed by a week of apathy, guilt, and wanting nothing more than to lay my head down, or hide it in some past favorite book or game or movie, and then feeling further shame for not bearing it more gracefully.

 Depression isn't always mental cancer. It may be a mental cold, or even a mental hangover. Is my depression of the body, with chemicals out of whack? Or is it perhaps depression of the heart, an emotional ailment which will heal with time and comfort? Depression of the nerves, to due with changes and adjustments, and added financial squeezing? Or is is a darker depression of the soul or character, which will never be put right? I want to find out, and I know there are some things I'm nervous of. Enough to wish for that bout of illness that may put my head on straight, and remind me of what I am, all with allowing me some length of reflection and a good, solid reason to lie in bed and feel what I need to feel.