It is surprising how guilty I feel when I choose to stay in bed for an hour more, or two, on rare occasions.
I stay in bed because I am tired, my dog just passed on and I just need a break. So I bury myself under my comforter, hug my safety blanket and lay my head on the only pillow I have. Stay still. Eyes shut and breath quiet. I slept at 5am the night before, or rather, this morning. My body feels heavy and my flesh weak.
Maybe I can afford to just take this day off. Not do anything or engage in work. Just go through my emotions and rest. Let the mind quieten before all the errands I have later in the day.
Always sounds like a good idea. Rest.
I can always go back to the grind tomorrow. Taking a break happens so seldom that surely I deserve this? I earned it somehow. Must I even earn my right to rest? Can’t I just choose to rest? Shouldn’t my choice be enough, especially when I do balance it out with work on other days?
But guilt seeps in and plagues me. It is funny, really.
I choose to rest but I also choose to let this guilt eat away at my mind, and torment me.
Lazy. Pig. Irresponsible. Failure. Passive. Not hardworking. A drifter. All achievements go down the drain. Think of your deadlines. Work isn’t that bad. Why can’t you do it? Move on. Who are you if you don’t work? What are you doing? Doing nothing and resting is a pleasure, a luxury. Hello? Get up get up get up!
And yes, I am not well off. My family only has enough or less. No one knows who I am, or even cares, especially in the bigger picture.
So who am I if I don’t work? Work hard enough for people to know me and notice? Who am I without this?