What is being tired? What is being me?

Sweet sister Laura and Jon
who left for Fresno on the train yesterday

For the last few weeks I would get the idea, for example, to open, or close, the curtains in my room, which are about 10 feet away. Lying in my bed, I would think about it, off and on, for say an hour. Then I might decide not to, thinking it's really not worth the effort. Or I'd do it, and fall into bed afterwards, breathing heavily, to recover. I lay this out in some detail because I myself have a very hard time understanding 'the new tired'.

But, I don't feel that tired anymore. I can do a few things. I started taking 2 mg of dexamethazone (steroid) yesterday but I had more energy before that. I'm still lying down most of the day, but I'm not sleeping as much. You know what else takes energy that I never noticed before? Humor. That's when you know you're really sick. It's impossible to make a joke. I really enjoy making people laugh. Not being able to do much for myself and often not being able to make jokes, I can hardly recognize myself. 

People say I might be happier somewhere else, not cooped up in this room. But who's cooped up? Not me. I have everything I need here. Going outside is somewhat stressful. Going on retreat in a few days will be fine because once I get there I'll possibly do much the same thing (but in a prettier place, with help and meditation options.) 

How do I feel? A prisoner of my body, which is going to stop, and a certain level of acceptance of that. A lone polar bear swimming, scanning the horizon for land. Other people's sadness. Trying to get used to being a different person, or maybe just a different body. Eyes closed and a hand feeling around in a drawer for something lost. A clock. A future goodbye to myself. Taking off the hazmat suit. Looking at the ocean.

Here's me saying a little about why I became an anagarika.