Darning versus Damning

I'm spending the day crafting and watching BBC documentaries - Victorian Farm and Edwardian Farm, particularly.

Not really crafting, I suppose, so much as mending; attaching buttons, repairing split seams, darning socks. I'm not very good at it, but I'm enjoying the work. I like the precision required and the utility of the finished products. Feeling useful is important to me, and it is also a rare feeling.

Perhaps it's that I haven't finished my degree yet, or that I don't have a career in my field. Hell, I don't really have a career at all, but a job. There isn't really any room for advancement unless I go into business for myself. I wouldn't rule that out in the future, once my debts are paid off, but for right now, I have to be content that I'm doing a job that requires observational skills and quick-thinking. And I am content, mostly.

I get down on myself for something that is entirely out of my control: the way my faulty collagen affects my movement, strength, and pain levels. I push myself to ignore my body's warnings and to not make excuses - "Sure, I can pick up an extra twelve-hour night shift at work" - but, I fear that I'm rather awful at it and that I cop out when I should adapt or innovate.

It's difficult to remember that my mind is subjective rather than objective in situations like these, and that my depression-and-anxiety-riddled brain is especially subjective. At times, such as in November, it is dangerously so. But really, my family is right; I shouldn't be so hard on myself.

Sure, my sewing isn't perfect and my knitting is quite slow, but I enjoy the work. It keeps my hands busy, of course, and it keeps my mind too busy to confuse my subjective and harmful thoughts for facts. That's probably the most important part.

Well, that, or that I'll finally have some socks to wear that don't have holes in them.