Came across this today: Spoon Theory.
It's definitely worth a read if you have the time.
As I was reading it, I was struck by how much I could relate to this woman. No, I'm not sick in the traditional sense, but I do have a mental health issue and I do take care of a chronically sick child. I too feel as though I only have a certain number of spoons in my hand at any given time, but for me they're weekly allowances, not daily.
Mike was late getting home today because we had extremely violent thunderstorms which knocked out some traffic lights down by his workplace. Plus, people always drive bananas when the rain comes and it takes you three times as long to get anywhere. Anyway, he called me while he was stuck in a traffic jam and to me it was the last straw. By Friday, I'm absolutely exhausted. I have no energy to feed my son, to cook (or even think about) dinner, to tidy up the house, or to run errands in the evening. I feel bone-tired, even though Fridays are usually my least-busy day of the week, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to get off the floor - which is usually where I am on a Friday afternoon. When Mike calls me at the end of the week, he's always so excited to be done with work, and every single time I manage to crush his buoyancy like a particularly annoying mosquito. I just can't bear it when he's so energetic and ... just ... MAD. He's like a small child on Fridays, and after an entire week of taking care of one of those, I just can't face another.
When I'm tired I can't make decisions. I find it hard to function normally, and as my 'normal' involves feeding Little O, I'm often driven to the point of desperation when Mike is late and can't do his Friday 5pm feed. Today I nearly cried when England drew against Algeria because Owen REFUSED to sleep at his usual time, which meant he cried and cried and cried, which meant his stomach muscles contracted like mad, which meant I couldn't get his feeding tube to drain properly, which meant I couldn't get his lunch inside him, which meant he didn't eat his entire lunch, which meant I felt extremely guilty, which meant I was exhausted after two hours of battling reflux and guilt, which meant when England didn't secure a win I was VERY upset. And very, very tired. I could NOT face another round in the ring for Little O's dinner, and I was almost catatonic on the floor when Mike told me he would be late. He came home to me still on the floor, propping Little O up on my arm while his automatic feeding pump whirred in the background. Sure, it takes three times as long to get a meal in him, but when you just don't have the spoons left to fight another battle, it sure as hell makes do.
Today, my spoons are all gone. But tomorrow, thank God, I get a fresh supply.