I'm no stranger to encountering broken things - in fact I might go so far to say I occasionally seek them out! Fixing stuff (and enjoying fixing stuff) is an innate part of who I am and what I do. There are some things that I don't enjoy fixing though. Things that are supposed to just work.
Number one on that list is myself. My own body and mind.
It's not like I don't enjoy fixing myself (although I must say that as the years go by, I have come to terms with accepting that I do need increasing levels of assistance and professional opinions when it comes to fixing myself), but that when the list of things (subsystems?) that are not functioning to expectation become overwhelming, life just feels like one series of setbacks.
I look around me and I see things that I am struggling to take care of because I cannot take care of myself. I know what is supposed to fix me (theoretically, of course - nothing to do with human beings can be guaranteed!) but it's not just a matter of knowing, or even doing, but doing in a way that makes sense.
Case in point: sleep. My sleep troubles (and, case in point, I didn't regard them as troubles until quite recently) were from as long ago as my late teens, and it was only 2 weeks ago that I was able to experimentally prove that they were the cause of a host of other problems!
And yet, here I am, blogging at 1:59 am when I definitely am supposed to be asleep.
Was it because I woke up too late? Was it because of my cup of tea at 10pm? Was it because of my late dinner at 11pm? Was it a combination of all of these + my overall predilection for staying up late and doing increasingly unproductive things, at the cost of productive things that could be better done in the day, because I have less autonomy over what I can and cannot do during the day? It's hard to say. But here I am.
