On Looking Good

This morning I woke up at 6:40 with a bad dream. Since I had planned an 8:30 appointment with someone from church to videotape myself working with her child, I went ahead and got up. I had slept almost eight hours, but I was tired. Stiff. Sore. I went through my morning routine but also made sure I had fantastic makeup and at least decent hair. Taping, after all. So I stood at the mirror in the bathroom for that, ignoring my legs' requests to sit down.

Then I went to the church acquaintance's home. Somehow I ended up having all three of her children with me. I had to be high-energy for the camera, "in the moment" to demonstrate what I wanted to demonstrate, aware of where the children were (moving them if they blocked the camera), and cognizant of where the baby was. I enjoyed the children, who were little darlings, but I used a lot of energy during my visit with them.

I came home briefly and helped a friend with something on the computer. Then I went to my shrink appointment.

The first thing she said was, "You look great! You must be doing a lot better."

Don't get me wrong, I felt alright at that moment. But great? Now that is taking things too far.

Yesterday I had a horrible day but got compliments on how good I looked, from children and adults alike. Makeup does wonders. And as an aside, children give the best compliments. "You have pretty hair." "You eyebrows are pretty." (I got that from at least three kids, who I think were referring to my eyeshadow.)

I know that I have mentioned before that MS is called the "But you look so good" disease. I can affirm that this is true. I suppose I should be grateful that my struggles are not obvious to the world, so I can keep it to myself if I choose. But sometimes I would like for people to know how I am doing, such as people close to me. I cannot exactly go around saying, "Today I am having a bad day. My spasticity is over the top. Just so you know."

Sometimes I get annoyed or frustrated when I need something and cannot get it or do it--or it is extremely difficult for me and will mean that I will be stuck on the couch for hours--and no one knows how I am feeling. How can no one notice that I am exhausted? Or in pain? Or weak?

Is there something between suffering in silence and being a whiny downer?