Not Enough Spoons

Do you know what a “Spoonie” is? It got started by Christine Miserandino. Basically, the theory equates spoons to energy. People who are well have an unlimited number of spoons (energy) and can coast through their day without much thinking about anything. But people with chronic illness don’t have that luxury. They have a limited number of spoons (energy) and have to think through each and every task, from getting out of bed to getting dressed, to going somewhere. Each task costs one or more spoons.

A “Spoonie” is someone who has a limited amount of energy or well-being. 

Please read Christine’s “Spoon Theory” here.

Christine Miserandino’s Spoon Theory 

For over a year, I was a "Spoonie." I suppose I could still be considered a Spoonie since I still have diabetes and major depression. But both of those conditions are well managed through medication and therapy.

The following story is about a more immediate energy problem.

I wrote this story in the middle of what my family and I call “the mystery illness.” I was undergoing constant testing, being probed from my top end and my bottom end. You see, I couldn’t hold down any food. I dropped 25 pounds in a matter of weeks. And the doctors couldn’t tell me why.

Eventually, it was determined I have a fairly common but very uncomfortable condition called Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) which may have been partly to blame for my feeling so sick. But it wasn’t the only culprit. I continued to be unable to hold down food. This lasted for over a year until one of my doctors suggested a medication, Lisinopril, which had been prescribed to help protect my kidneys, might be to blame.

I stopped taking the pills and almost immediately felt better.

Because I wasn’t throwing up, I gained back my weight and most of my energy. But before that happened, I wrote this piece.

I’d like to share it with you now.

Not Enough Spoons

I’m smoking too many cigarettes. Trying to motivate myself to move. To do something. Anything.

My kitchen sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. My laundry hamper is overflowing with dirty laundry. My dryer is overflowing with wrinkled but clean clothes.

That’s something at least.

I don’t have a job. I have too little income. I want to write three or four essays daily. I want to find work-at-home gigs.

I’ve found a few side hustles but have failed to take the very last steps to begin working.

I want to go back to bed. I don’t even have the energy for that.

I am neglecting something else. I can’t remember what. My memory is shit today. I’m in the fog again.

My stomach is roiling. Maybe I’ll get more coffee. Maybe I’ll smoke another cigarette. I don’t care that it is 9 a.m. If I weren’t nauseous I would drink a beer.

I am nauseous, though. I wouldn’t have the energy to get up and get it, anyway. Did I just put out a cigarette? I can’t remember.

I slog myself through the hallway where the washer and dryer are to get outside to smoke another cigarette.

The full dryer confronts me. Shames me.

Before going outside I force myself to fold three towels and hang up 2 shirts. This completely wears me out. My arms are heavy.

Outside I smoke and check my emails. All the job postings and reminders to take the last steps. I panic. I ignore them. Guilt assails me like an old friend. A warm smothering blanket. And I am too heavy.

I want to want to do more. I can’t want to. I’m too tired. Too depressed. Too overwhelmed. Too sick.

Three back-to-back doctors appointments loom above me Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Monday and Tuesday are out-of-town appointments. 2 hour round trip drives. In traffic. In an unfamiliar city. Dread makes me even heavier.

My antinausea pill has finally begun to work but I don’t go in the kitchen to get something to eat. It’s too far. It’s too dirty. The kitchen sink leers at me with its piled-up dishes.

I should write. Or draw. Or paint. Or earn a few cents answering surveys. Something. Anything to be productive. To contribute.

I don’t do anything. I’m out of spoons physically and emotionally.

Spoons? What do spoons have to do with anything?

This is a concept created by people with chronic conditions (chronic pain, chronic fatigue, chronic anything that saps your energy) to describe the ability or inability to get through the day.

Let’s say a person is given a fixed number of spoons each day. Every action costs 1 or more spoons. Getting dressed can cost up to 3 spoons for me. I am winning if I get some pants on under my robe. Putting on socks will be another spoon.

Each activity, each thought process costs at least one spoon.

Some days I run out of spoons before I get started. I have more than one chronic condition.

I have diabetes. I have thyroid issues. I have a mystery illness that causes nausea and, for a while, vomiting every day. I have major depressive disorder and anxiety.

I have a teenage son who is also depressed, suicidal, and self-harming.

I have a husband who is diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and PTSD.

My son ran away recently.

Because he is 17 and we live in Texas, he is not considered a runaway. He is considered an adult. The cops gave him a choice to come home or not. He chose not. I’m so very worried.

My husband has been carrying us financially with his $9/hr part-time job.

And I feel so ashamed. So helpless. So useless.

I am dropping the ball, unable to carry the family the way my inner voice shrieks at me I should be.

How can I be productive? I understand intellectually that I ran out of spoons long ago. My guilt and my shame push me to produce more anyway. Push me to produce beyond the point of emotional and physical exhaustion. Push me to the point of mental exhaustion so extreme I can barely remember how to string three words together.

I am out of spoons. Not even shitty plastic half fork half spoons are in my arsenal. I’m not sure I can even find a chopstick at this point.

Maybe I’ll have more spoons in a few days, weeks, months, or years.

I want to want to be productive today. Everything inside of me is screaming to produce, to contribute, to earn money. But I can’t want to.

Maybe tomorrow.

Lead Image by Image by Дарья Яковлева from Pixabay 

Image by Matej Madar from Pixabay 

This story first appeared in Invisible Illness on February 5 2020