“I don’t want to be like this…”

I was almost in tears this morning.

Photo by Chelsea Aaron on Unsplash

In my heart and brain I’m forty-two. In my body, ninety-two. In actuality, seventy-two. I am not aging well. Helen Mirren, one of my idols, recently said, that we should age “ungraciously.” Helen, dear, I’m well on my way to doing just that.

With various physical/mental issues, including a bad back brought on my forty-four years of nursing, Depression brought on by a childhood of physical discipline, high blood pressure, obesity that I fight everyday of my life and its subsequent Type 2, and low self-esteem (from all the previous), I am aging as ungraciously as possible.

I couldn’t sleep because of burning in my feet and back pain. I‘d even taken the dreaded Tramadol. I’d had my one meat product of the week for supper — our favorite restaurant’s signature “pizza sandwich” and one lite beer and my blood sugar this morning was 136. I can’t even satisfy a guilty pleasure once a week without paying for it. They call it BS for a reason.

Earlier I had to rub my feet with an extreme moisturizer for the severe burning, which will be part of my next podiatry visit discussion.

My shoulders hurt after I’ve been typing for any length of time. Yeah, I need a new chair or chair cushions or a new body.