According to my mom (and many people like her), I am not suffering from depression or osteoarthritis – oh no, I’m just lazy. Granted, I am very lazy, but I do take my responsibilities seriously. I can take failing a class because I didn’t turn in an assignment (because I was too busy farming on DragonFable), but I won’t miss doing a chore.
It’s just that my energy levels fluctuate daily: one day I’ve got enough energy to do anything and everything under the sun in the 16 hours that I am awake; the next, I get out of bed and whelp, half of my total for the day has just been used up (my body’s like “Haha sucks for you, loser”). On days like the latter you’ll catch me taking power naps, cutting corners in chores, sitting in bed staring into space, staying in my room, avoiding guests, not talking to my siblings, getting mad at the smallest annoyances, and not in my mom’s room listening to her complaints.
But according to Mama, who has a Masters in Physics and a PhD in Momology, I am not physically and mentally ill to such an extent that I can’t function – illnesses which I have been medically certified for, and which I take medicine for (depression: self-diagnosed at 9, certified at 16; osteoathritis: self-diagnosed at 17, certified at 19).
So here I am, literally (literally) not able to enjoy the things I like, let alone the things I don’t like, because my body is heavy, my joints are throbbing with pain (unlike the achey kind of pain, which is a backdrop to my life, the stabby kind only happens every so often when my depression acts up) and my head is about to explode.
But yeah, sure, “You’re just lazy.”