Rage Against Time


WARNING : This post contains an unnecessary amount of uncharacteristic melancholy.

I used to be a big fan of time. The biggest. It came on arrogantly and I conquered it, day by day, hour by hour. I enjoyed the challenge of mapping out each week, manipulating the slots of my calendar as though I were commanding nations rather than one small person. I figured if the only thing I could control in this life was myself, then I would do it thoroughly and beautifully. And there isn't much that can compare to the beauty of a list completely checked off. Tick. Tick. Tick. Such lovely rows of ultra-fine-sharpie checkmarks.

Time was loyal to my cause for so long. And then it turned on me.

Time is not your friend when you're chronically ill.

Chronic illness is when all your broad ink strokes become tentative pencil marks. I abhor the phrase "I'll pencil you in". You can't bravely chart a full day in pencil marks.

When you have an inadequate amount of energy and focus to cover the entire day, the hours become divided into two unbalanced and unpredictable piles: those in which you can cram the moving, thinking and living, and those that pass slowly while you draw the blankets closer and try to find a limb that isn't sore upon which to shift your weight. Those are the blank hours. The hungry hours. The cheated majority that have lost everything to the greedy few. And life is like a tilting boat with all the passengers gathered arbitrarily to one side.

And yet those who are wearied by the unlimited demands of life envy you your involuntary ineptitude.

If they only knew.

The hours when I'm present and happy and able to lift toddlers and bake cookies and mop floors and finish chapters are hours to be celebrated and savoured. Yes! My body and mind are functioning! Hurry, let's scrub the sink and then go to the library!

And those other hours...well, there are reasons that you don't get to witness them. Mainly because you can't feel what I'm feeling and so you would be bored. There's nothing interesting about being so cold your hands burn like frostbite. Or having eyes too dry and bleary for tv. Or suddenly having the reading comprehension of a six year old.

That's when I hate time.

Horrible, empty, wasted, muddled time.


  1. You are strangely beautiful. ..and I mean that in a magnificent way.

  2. Hi, just found your blog (a brilliant brother-in-law shared a link to a post), and so, thank you. Thank you for using your skill to share such emotion, so cleanly and succinctly written. This post, especially, resonates with me--I've tried to express the same idea, but it never comes across how I want it to. It's a real upper for me to find a description like this that explains it so well. Validation, I suppose! Also, I know it took courage to put it out there for public consumption--thanks for that, as well.