Self Pity?

I currently seem to be sinking into the kind of morose, self-pitying frames of reference that used to be the result of excessive alcohol consumption. Perhaps the cause is the teetotalism that I’ve been practising these past few days; there’s just no winning in these situations.

Truth be told, self-pity is barely part of my vocabulary these days; I tend to cope reasonably well with the slings and arrows that ME/CFS ensures my flesh is heir to, I don’t really have much choice in the matter. Ever since Julie, at the Chronic Fatigue Unit, grounded me in the principles of pacing, I’ve managed to avoid the worst excesses of my former ‘boom and bust’ circle of activity/inactivity and, for that I’m extremely grateful.

What I’m finding difficult to cope with is the viral attack that my beloved currently has to cope with. I was already at a fairly low ebb, stamina-wise, before I started to apply myself to my nursemaid duties and, what really startles me, despite my youthful training as a student nurse, is that I’m finding it really difficult to cope with Helen being poorly. She is my life, my raison d’etre and, I just want to do more for her but feel quite helpless into the bargain. The self-pity is more rooted in this sense of helplessness, rather than the everyday reality of coping with me.