I am not always in possession of my own faculties and the resulting anger lashes out, mostly at my husband, whom I hope recognizes it is seldom personal.

I hate myself in these moments – not all of me – just the malfunctioning parts.

It happens when I overexert myself.  Systemic Exertion Intolerance Disease is the new name attributed to ME/CFS, and it is appropriate.  Even my brain suffers from exhaustion.

I have been pushing myself extra hard lately – partly because I am tired of being tired, and partly because I have some things I need to get done – and the result for my brain is that it is losing ground.  I forget things, become confused easily, and cannot process information.

We have been prepping here for a yard sale.  That means making a lot of decisions.  Decisions involve executive functioning:  Is this object redundant? Can I see myself needing it down the road?  How much should I ask for it?  While these may seem like fairly straightforward questions, to the disabled mind they can be taxing.

Mid-afternoon my sister dropped by to help out.  Conversation was difficult as the words just would not come.  She took home a couple of things to try out in her own home.  Later, she texted me money for the items.

This is when it all fell apart.

I have never received money via texting before and my brain, instead of seeing a new learning opportunity, shut down.

“I can’t do this!” I bemoaned to my husband.  “Why would she do that to me?”

He tried to talk me through it.  My brain rebelled further.

“Can’t I just forward the text to you and you do it?”

“You can try, but I don’t think it works that way.”

Money, my panic was telling me, is suspended in space and you better hurry up and grab it!

I tossed my phone aside, laid back and took some deep breaths.  It’s a technique I’ve learned when my muscles get in knots – better to breathe through the stress then try to conquer it.

Awareness of how to proceed floated to the surface.  I deposited the texted money to my account – not the right one – but I had received it, nevertheless.

My husband tried to talk to me about what I can do differently next time, but I hadn’t lost the combative edge yet.  He left me alone.

Sometimes, I just have to grasp the rage by the neck and wrestle it to the ground before it destroys us all.

“I got a lot done today,”  I said aloud.  “And I’m proud of myself for resolving that problem.”

“You’ve done very well,” my husband responded, re-entering the room.

I looked at this man, so brilliant and accomplished, and marvelled that he puts up with the lot of me.

“I am happy, you know,” I tell him, “and excited about where our life is going.” I reach out a hand to him.

“I know you are,” he says taking my hand.  “I know you are.”

Neither of us speaks of concern or worry – it’s all been said before.  What if I never do get better?