Days like this are so much fun, whereas fun is defined as "maybe I'd prefer a root canal instead. Or a nice relaxing six hours listening to Gilbert Gottfried sing the hits of Yoko Ono".
So yeah, I could start my day at 4:30 in the morning, and be a shambling zombie who, if I didn't get into an accident while driving half awake, risks losing my job because I said something dumb while trying to stay awake. Not a good choice. Even though the depression suggests I'm being a coward and lazy.
So I go back to sleep in hopes the feeling okay will persist. I wake up and I don't feel too bad. The depression kicks in again and reminds me how worthless and lazy I am for having gone back to sleep.
So I sit up to get going, stressing over being late, and the pain returns, as if it were just waiting for its cue to enter, and it is bad, as if sleeping gave it time to build up more agony for me to appreciate now that I'm actually all the way conscious.
So when your friends who have invisible illnesses tell you they can't make it, even if they sound fine? They're not fine. Really. We have just perfected sounding conversational when we'd really be sobbing or screaming into a pillow, or knocking ourselves unconscious with a mallet. These are survival skills. Coping methods. Trust me, I wish I didn't have to develop them.