Unspoken

Sitting together and so far apart,
a thousand words unsaid and truths unspoken,
I never felt more alone, more out of place,
as I do tonight,
sitting by your side.

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A bottle in my hand and a cigarette in yours,
I open my mouth but no words will form,
it all seems so trivial when I feel this broken,
when you’re sitting so close to me,
yet not here at all.

(c)

Writing about 2008 is more difficult than I ever imagined. On one hand, I almost feel uncomfortable writing about my past relationships now that I’ve been with S for eighteen months; I know he probably wouldn’t mind, but it must be weird for him to know I’m writing about my exes. On the other hand, it’s only now that I can see just how low I sunk; I knew I was falling apart but what I didn’t realise is that I’d totally cracked long before it got to this point. I can see that now. It’s difficult to think about. I acted in ways I’m not proud of and damaged my body god knows how much with handfuls of amitriptyline, tramadol, diazepam, co-codamol, small antidepressant overdoses to get me through the night in a dazed drug-fuelled stupor instead of having to deal with the reality of everything in my life going incredibly wrong. 

O and I… we stopped speaking one day. Conversation turned to bitter arguments and shouting matches. Slammed doors and a smashed laptop. Midnight chases down the street; it was always me doing the running. I just couldn’t face any of it. 

I remember sitting on his swivel office chair, gulping from a bottle of cheap peach schnapps and watching him smoke cigarette after cigarette, sitting on his bed and brooding. He threw me out that night. 

Of course, we got back together. We did a lot of getting back together. 

No alarms and no surprises

* Trigger warning: contains talk of calorie amounts and eating disorders. 

I’m not entirely sure what happened this weekend. Something inside me doesn’t want to write about it, but I’m aware that I rarely talk about my weekends; by the time I get home from S’s house I’m exhausted and it sort of slips away until it feels too late to describe the days.

I’m aware that while I’m writing so much, I’m neglecting other blogs, and that makes me feel guilty. It’s very much all about give and take for me, and knowing I’m taking all this support and not giving anything back… it’s uncomfortable for me. I apologise; things have become a little difficult and writing feels like my only outlet.

Food. Food is an issue. Today I ate a whole low fat banana loaf and some vegetarian sausages and beans on wholemeal toast. Around 1000 calories. Yesterday… maybe around the same; I didn’t count. The past week… around 300-400 calories a day. Sugar-free squash and strong coffee and taking anti-inflammatories on an empty stomach. By Friday I was flaring heavily and dizzy from lack of food. A good dizzy. Confirmation that I’ve restricted enough calories. My stomach was rolling and, despite being almost empty, cramping like crazy. I spent most of Friday afternoon on the toilet.

So really, I do know what happened. The flare combined with restricting; not forgetting regular joints and a bit of alcohol… it all brought me down. S doesn’t have much money right now – it’s getting close to payday – so I packed two big bags of food from the cupboards and fridge. I’d bought a cherry pie and ice cream, thinking that we could snuggle up together in front of a film and I’d feel safe enough to eat. I baked the pie; baked it at 11pm and we watched Andy Kaufman’s standup on Youtube. I couldn’t eat it. I tried; I really did. I wanted to. However much I attempted to swallow though, the pie just became bigger and bigger in my mouth. It tasted of nothing. All I saw in the bright red sauce and cherries was calorie upon calorie. I ate perhaps three small spoonfuls, then gave up. I’d only had a tiny slice. A 16th of the pie, S said.

I tried chocolate Philadelphia on walnut bread. Two small slices later, I felt horribly full and self-aware. Coffee with almond milk became a big no-no once I started thinking, “nuts have fat in…”. I told S that I was feeling ill and that’s why I wasn’t eating. It wasn’t exactly a lie; I felt downright bloody awful.

Saturday, and the weather was lovely. I spend it indoors, either sleeping or reading. I couldn’t face daylight. Cooked pasta and again, couldn’t eat it. S said it was lovely – I’d cheated and used ready-made sauce, but had chopped up some onions and garlic to add to it – but I just couldn’t taste anything. It was like eating cardboard.

I slept a lot, sweating buckets all over S’s mattress. Occasionally he’d wake me with a kiss or a nuzzle, and give me a cuddle. For the first time, well, since we met really, we didn’t have sex once on Saturday or Sunday. I just couldn’t feel anything. Couldn’t find the energy. S didn’t mention it, which is a comfort. Since O left, I worry that the man I love will walk away because I can’t always manage to perform. S… it just didn’t seem to be an issue with him. I’m very lucky; I know that.

He treated me like a princess. Fluffed my pillows and tucked me in with a kiss on the forehead. Didn’t tease me about my hairy, unshaven legs. Helped me over the back step when we went out for a smoke. Didn’t pressure me to go to a party we were both invited to, and came back in the time he said he would, giving me a big kiss and telling me about how much I’d have hated to be there anyway.

We talked a lot about the new flat. The bathroom’s been done; there’s a large corner shower apparently, and they’re doing the kitchen now. We’re getting an oven, fridge/freezer and washing machine. New cream deep-pile carpets. S has a huge leather sofa with a chaise longue. A chaise longue! We’re going to get a Rasperry Pi and set it up as a server for all our music, and have Age Of Empires battles.

We’ll be moving in soon. Around two or three weeks from now.

I’m hoping a lot will change once S and live together. He grounds me. Keeps me balanced.

I came back home on Sunday night, shuffling into a taxi and clinging onto my new phone like crazy so I could have some connection to S. My mobile broke a while ago – the camera stopped working and then the touch screen – and on Thursday I spilled a full cup of coffee on it, destroying the poor thing entirely. I spilled a lot of coffee that day. I’ve been knocking drinks over like crazy for a couple of weeks now.

An acquaintance (I’d say friend, but you know the issues I have with that word) offered me a Samsung Ch@t for free, and dropped it off at S’s house on Friday night. I can’t help but mistrust this person, like I do pretty much everyone else, but it was a kind thing to do. I hate the name of the thing – Ch@t, for god’s sake – but it’s a cool little thing and has a QWERTY keyboard, meaning I can send texts comfortably again. Touch screens made my fingers ache.

Didn’t sleep on Sunday night. I missed S too much. When I’m feeling like this – down, but not depressed – all I want is to cuddle up next to him and feel his arm around me. When we sleep, he wraps his whole body around me sometimes. We’re always touching in some way, and we usually wake up holding hands. It sounds unreal, and part of me is still convinced it is. I just wish I could get my brain in order; I can see a future with this guy.

And I don’t think that’s the BPD talking.

Dreary Mondays and The Daisy Award

As Mondays go, it’s been a pretty dreary day. Grey clouds in the sky, a cold wind in the air, and fatigue upon fatigue dragging my body down into the floor. After a weekend spent lying in bed while S works on his programming and struggling up and down the stairs for smokes, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m having my first fibro-flare since beginning the treatment with Lyrica. It’s a strange feeling; none of the usual muscle spasms  but all the extreme tiredness and confusion. My thighs and upper arms don’t ache, but they still feel like they’re filled with lead. It’s just not hot lead anymore.

I don’t know what I thought. I just didn’t expect to still have flares, I suppose; I know Lyrica only helps with muscle pains and spasms, but for some reason the idea of a flare never entered my mind. It’s incredibly difficult staying awake; I got up with S this morning to see him off to work and didn’t sleep well last night, so it’s very tempting to close my eyes and fall asleep for a little while. Sometimes it seems like my abnormal sleeping habits will never right themselves.

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The lovely Quiet Borderline has kindly nominated me for The Daisy Award. The rules for this award are much the same as usual:

* Thank the person who nominated you.

* Tell your readers 7 unusual things about yourself.

* Nominate some worthy bloggers.

What is a quiet borderline?

It’s potentially less common, but equally insidious, maybe moreso, because it can be trickier to diagnose someone who displays characteristics of a Quiet Borderline. Why’s that? Because they are much more likely to Act In, then Act Out. They are not known for raging openly, where other people can see them, so it’s more difficult to recognize that there’s a problem. It’s very typical for only those people that are very close, often intimately involved, with this person to know that there is a problem that needs to be helped with. This is something that I identify with very well. To the outside world anyone you ask would tell you I am the pinnacle of pulled together. They don’t know what goes on inside.

Which ultimately is not that different from what you would consider a classic Borderline presentation. By which I mean that all those underlying reasons for a BPD diagnosis are essentially the same in those that are “quiet” and those that are acting out. The main difference is how it presents and manifests… how a person expresses their symptoms.
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The Quiet Borderline is a blogger I much admire. I hesitated to use the word “blogger”, because it doesn’t sum up the depth and detail in her words. Above all else, she’s a writer; and one I highly recommend reading if you want to know the ins and outs of BPD. Her tenacity in dealing with often horrible situations is to be respected, and it’s an honor to be nominated by somebody like her.
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Seven unusual things
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1. Like The Quiet Borderline, I have mangled toenails. Both nails on my big toes were removed in my early teens, and I hide the skin where it never grew back by covering it in nail varnish. You will never see me without varnish on my toenails; it’s almost an obsession. I can still remember the nurse squeezing my hand as a needle was pushed right through my toe. I think I broke her fingers.
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2. I’m incredibly blasé about needles, otherwise. Blood tests have never been an issue for me, and as a child I used to love watching the blood go up the cannula into the little vial. Heck, I still do that.
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3. Although I knit a lot, I rarely finish a project. To date I’ve made six hats and six scarves, despite spending hours knitting like a fiend. Like most other things in life, I’m dogged by paranoia that whatever I touch ends up ruined. If a stitch drops or I accidentally purl instead of knit, I won’t go back and fix it even though I know how. It’s failed by then.
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4. I have a great weakness for Nero’s hazelnut mochas. Not really unusual, but heck. It’s a fact.
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5. Considering I often sleep until the afternoon, I absolutely adore the morning. Especially when the sun is just rising on a warm day; it makes me blissfully happy. I’ll throw open my curtains and open the window, even if I’ve been up all night staring at the laptop screen and smoking like a chimney, red-eyed and coughing. Even if I go to sleep straight afterwards, I have to see the sunrise if I have a chance. It’s always peaceful. I love the world before it wakes up.
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6. I often buy books based purely on the cover art.
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7. When I’m stressed, I spend money. It’s a release of sorts, almost similar to self-harm. In fact, I’ll often buy things I don’t need rather than cut myself. It’s not quite as effective, but holds off the urge for a while. I’ve never been in proper debt, but I do owe my mother quite a bit of money. I keep borrowing to pay for hair products and make-up; you see, when everything goes wrong I try to patch things up with the false illusion of beauty. If I’m pretty, life can surely never be harsh. I need to spend that money because that lipstick may just be the answer to everything.
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Nominations
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I don’t really know what The Daisy Award means, so my nominations are bloggers who have inspired me – in their own ways – to keep writing and sharing.
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Sisterhood of the World, and 100,000 views.

It’s been another non-day; watching old episodes of ER while playing Bejeweled and smoking, trying not to fall asleep in an attempt to rearrange my ridiculous sleeping habits. If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ll know that I often suffer from insomnia, interspersed with periods of extreme fatigue which can leave me stuck in bed for days, sometimes sleeping for fifteen hours or more. Lately I’ve been sleeping late and staying up until the early hours of the morning, getting stoned and, well, I don’t know how to describe it. Half-sleeping. I’m awake, but I dream; I don’t know any way to express how it feels, and I just hope somebody knows what I mean. It’s a sort of fugue state, but not borne from any depression. I’m very anxious, but happy on the whole.

I just lie there and think. Mostly about stupid stuff; crazy plans and thoughts inspired by dope and tiredness. Sometimes I imagine having conversations with S and finally admitting to all my failings with the codeine and thoughts of self-harm. I know I planned to speak to him about it at the weekend, but it just never seemed like the right time. Is that an excuse? I don’t know. Everything was just so nice and happy and lovely, and I didn’t want to bring anything down with my issues.

I was sitting around wondering how I could make a post about the weekend, still stuck in the “how do I start this?” dilemma. I procrastinated for a while, reading through recent comments I haven’t had time to reply to, and saw that Gypsy has nominated  me for the Sisterhood of the World award; giving me a much-needed happiness boost and also the perfect excuse for actually writing about what happened since Friday. The rules for the award are much the usual:

1. Thank the giver
2. Post 7 things about yourself
3. Pass the award on to 7 other bloggers and let them know they’ve been nominated
4. Include the logo of the award in a post or on your blog

So, number one; the thing I want to say here is that Gypsy was one of the first bloggers I followed, way back when I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. Reading about her life – in the wonderful detail she uses – showed me for the first time in life that there are others out there like me; others who think like I do and have the same struggles. Before reading about her experiences with BPD, I truly thought I was alone. She’s a wonderful woman, and somebody I would love to meet one day. She’s worth a million pounds and more in the blogging world.

As for the seven things, this is where I will write about my weekend. Good cop-out, eh?

1. On Friday afternoon, Halfway Between The Gutter and the Stars reached 100,000 views. I’ve been writing this blog for a little over a year, and I never, never expected to reach so many people. For a long time, my stats showed that views were almost entirely from comments I’d made on other blogs. It averaged around 30-60 a day, and I thought that was a lot. Sometime around six months ago, visits picked up to the point where I now average 600 views a day; not bad for a little diary written by a crazy girl from a small town in England. As much as it may sound like I’m throwing my ego around, knowing this blog reaches so many people – from so many different countries  - is a happiness I can never begin to describe. I always wanted to be a writer, and now, in a small way… I am. I write, and people read. They choose to read. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how grateful I am for every reader; even the ones who look in just to snoop. I’ve decided that any publicity is good publicity.

Thank you. All too often, I’m terrified that I’m doing the wrong thing by putting the bare roots of my life out there.

2. For most of my life, I’ve avoided social gatherings; this much is obvious from what I’ve written in the past. I’ve always been that way – as well as having anxiety problems, I’m also naturally shy – and for the longest time it didn’t bother me. I was happy being mostly alone, because the world stretched ahead of me and I thought I had forever to make mistakes and sequester in my bedroom. However, for the past five years or so I’ve felt an unbearable yearning to be like everyone else – or at least, everyone else as I see it – and I’ve craved the normality of socialising.

Still, I’ve shied away from actually taking that step, because my insecurities hold me back; telling me I’ll make a fool of myself or I’ll be laughed at for my weight or clothes. So making a move towards entering that world is a big deal for me, and I managed it this weekend.

3. Although I was with people I knew – S, Z, her boyfriend and a friend – I was going to meet a lot I’d never spoken to in person before. For me… it was like running at the wall and having it break apart before me; meeting others from the internet is always difficult, and a large gathering… eh, it was difficult. I nearly backed out so many times, but I wanted to see if I could achieve something big. A long time ago, I joined an online forum for body modification; I think I was having trouble with one of my first piercings and needed advice before I hyperventilated. Over the years they’ve held regular meets, and I’ve always made my excuses; usually pretending I’m too skint or have made other plans. The usual lies.

However, something inside me wanted to go to this year’s Manchester meet. Z was already going, which gave me the courage to accept the Facebook invite.

I went.

4. For the first time since I can remember, I got a train on my own. Although S came with me, he left early; we’d originally planned to stay in Manchester until 5pm then head back into town for a friend’s birthday meal. Despite all my fears and reservations, I really enjoyed myself at the meet and I think S could tell I was comfortable drinking half a pint (Lyrica and alcohol; a bad combination) and chatting, so he suggested I stay if I wanted to. Anxiety aside, I was giddy from the tiny drink and general atmosphere, so agreed. I decided transport worries could wait until later.

Of course, things didn’t work out as planned. I missed my train by two minutes, and even though there were only a few platforms at the station, I got lost and ended up on the wrong side. By the time I got back to the right place, I’d started to panic. Going to the station entrance and finding everyone didn’t even enter my mind; my head told me to sit down and freak out, so I did. It’s at times like this I truly believe my mind and I are separate entities, held together by a strange glue neither of us wanted.

Retreating to the women’s toilets, I sat in the locked stall and allowed myself to fall apart. Although the station was almost empty at 22.30, a middle-aged couple and a few drunk men – staggering and shouting like banshees – were nearby and I couldn’t let them see me freak out. I’ve cried at too many station platforms in the past.

An hour later, after narrowly avoiding vomiting Snickers cocktails all over the waiting room floor, I got on the train, tucked myself away in a walled-in seat, and distracted myself by reading the BBC website on my phone. Mobile internet is a wonderful invention. When I finally got home another hour and a half later, S met me at the door with a hug and a take away vegetarian pizza. I could have kissed him. I did.

5. On Sunday afternoon, S and I sat in the garden as usual, shouting for the sun to come out from behind the clouds and me getting happily stoned while he drank cans of Kopperberg. In the midst of geeky conversation I mentioned how it’d be nice if I didn’t have to go home that night. S replied by saying “you don’t”, and so I sent my mother a text saying I wouldn’t be home until Monday morning. In an ideal world I shouldn’t have to tell my mother at all, nor fear a phone call demanding I come home (it’s happened), but I’d never say no to an extra night spent with S. He cooked dinner for me and we cuddled together before falling asleep. In the morning, as he scrambled around trying to wake me up and have a shower before work, I lay in his warm bed, pillows smelling of his hair and deodorant, and felt okay. Properly okay. Despite the train debacle, I’d really enjoyed spending time in a social group; not only that, but some agreed to come to our flatwarming party. Two messaged me on Facebook afterwards to say how lovely it was to finally meet me, and one offered a bed at her house if I ever wanted to spend the day in Manchester together.

6. Flatwarming party? Yes. I’ve kept this quiet, partly because things don’t tend to work out for me, and partly due to the whole fraud allegation mess. I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong by moving in with S; I’d still be just as in need of DLA, and I’d still need financial assistance to pay for the extras being disabled causes. Nothing would change, and it’s not income-based. I’d still need the same amount of care. Still, I worry. Being accused of wrongly claiming benefits has terrified me.

We’ve been told that the flat owned by a friend’s mother is being rented out, and we can move in around the end of the month. S and I are going to be living together soon.

I knew I wouldn’t make it to seven things, and it’s probably good that I couldn’t be bothered writing more; this post is getting long enough. As for nominating other blogs… this bit is always difficult. The award is called Sisterhood of the World; I’m not entirely sure what that means and who deserves a nomination.

I know “strong women” is always a bit of a cliché, but I’ve chosen to award this to the bloggers who keep on writing and fighting, even through adversity.

Stolen Crayons

Faith, Hope and Chocolate 

theicedsun

Letters to Dom

The Quiet Borderline

Anonymous Unidentified

witheringtulip

These bloggers all inspire me in different ways, and all too often I can identify with their words. They use language I like, and write beautifully. Most importantly, they all have their struggles to carry, yet write about them with such elegance and honesty.

Fingers crossed

Sometimes fate seems to conspire to shuffle everything into exactly the right position. Sometimes, you get given a break from nowhere, and although looking upon it as some sort of divine intervention is undoubtedly ridiculous and against everything I believe in… occasionally I wonder if somebody may be looking out for me.

I never wonder enough to believe it. I’m a woman of science; in mind if not education. Sometimes the concept just flickers through my mind. Like it did today.

I didn’t sleep. Of course I didn’t; it never happens before an appointment, and I admit I to missing S terribly after spending five days attached at the hip, so – as always – I comforted myself with procrastination until morning. Dragged myself off the bed at 8am to tie my hair back, put some mascara on and shuffle myself into my massively-oversized fat jeans, and then sat around snapping at my mother for a while. As usual, she gave me the usual verbal list she trots out every time I leave the house:

Have you got your phone?

Have you taken your medication?

Have you got your stick?

Do you have a cardigan?

Will those shoes be comfortable?

… sometimes, the list can run on into the hundreds, I swear.

To my shame, I called a taxi to get me to the small medical centre. It’s only a five-minute walk from my house. I just couldn’t face hobbling down the street in full view of the neighbours. I’m already the local weirdo, and small-town memories are long; my neighbours have seen me being brought home by police cars and taken to hospital in ambulances. They’ve watched me storm down the road while screaming at my mother, swearing and threatening suicide. To them I must come across as very strange; often not leaving the house for days on end and never using public transport. I’ve never driven a car (legally anyway) or left every morning for a regular job. It’s rare that somebody visits our house, and my bedroom window – which overlooks more houses – often has the curtains open wide and a light on at 3am.

I digress. When I got to the medical centre, I walked to the desk and told the receptionist I had an appointment with Dr C at half nine. She looked at her computer screen and winced; “it’s actually booked in with Dr W“.

Dr W is my sworn mortal enemy. As a young child, I was allergic to streptomycin – an antibiotic which is now only given intravenously in most countries, but was free for oral use when I was younger – and this was clearly documented in my notes. Dr W was called out for a home visit after I’d picked up yet another infection somewhere in my body, and straight away prescribed streptomycin. I assume my mother was too tired and stressed to check what she was giving me. Long story short, I went into anaphylactic shock and became very ill, and my mother and I (almost-jokingly) refer to her as the woman who tried to kill me.

Okay, doctors mess up. However, Dr W has been my sister’s GP for a long time, and in the past would often leave E in tears as she accused her of smoking. E is severely asthmatic and requires strong inhalers, and I’d take a guess that she really, really doesn’t smoke. Neither of my sisters do, although my brother C smokes like a chimney

As a result, I’ve always been  nervous of Dr W. I don’t cope well with authority as it is, and any hint of feeling judged or being seen as faking it sends me into a mad panic. However, I was in such a bad mood that I just accepted my fate and decided to throw her desk across the room if she so much as looked at me sideways. As it turns out, I didn’t need to force my pathetic muscles to throw office furniture. I didn’t even need to protest anything. This is where the fake divine intervention comes in. I saw her on the day I was finally going to lose it, when I finally reached the end of that absurdly long tether. The one day I wasn’t meek and mild, and was prepared to threaten to sue over the ridiculous length of time I’ve been expected to deal with multiple health problems with no real treatment or investigation.

I sat down and we exchanged “long time no see” pleasantries. I bit my tongue against saying “long time no attempted child murder”, and explained what’s been happening.

“I’m just tired of the pain. I’m sick of missing out on life because everything revolves around appointments. Lyrica helps, but I can’t enjoy my new-found ability to walk more than a few yards because I can’t stand on my left foot without wanting to amputate it. I never heard back about any test results, I don’t know what’s happening, everything seems to be inconclusive, and I want to know what’s going on.”

Dr W got on the phone to radiology and tried to chase up my ultrasound results, with little luck. Then she called my rheumetologist’s secretary. Again, no luck; Dr B has the results but Dr W couldn’t access them. After examining my foot she confirmed that I had indeed waited too long for any follow up, and promised to speak to Dr B himself later in the day to arrange an appointment with him ASAP.

I left her office feeling hopeful. Dismayed that I still have no way of alleviating the pain, but cheered to know she listened to my worries and not only took them on board, but acted on them. The doctor who tried to kill me… she came through for me.

By 11am, she’d spoken to Dr B. He’s sending an appointment out.

Fingers crossed.

I hope you’re feeling happy now, I see you feel no pain at all.

We drank vodka and orange juice, beer, cider and rum and coke. Played Boggle online, keeping a tally of scores. Sat in the garden – both rain and shine – and smoked while getting sunburned one day and sheltering from the torrent by squeezing into the spider-infested shed the next. Ate pizza, kebabs, garlic mushrooms, toast, a roast dinner, chocolate mousse, biscuits and pack upon pack of Wotsits. We sat by the lake and stuffed our faces with chips, watching a swan paddling away near a stack of beer barrels and an old paddle-boat which is long past its prime but still takes tourists out on the lake in the summer; rust and all.

We lay in bed for hours. Napped when we felt like it, and stayed up late. Ventured out to buy large mochas and sat for hours, watching the world go by. Bought blackcurrant beer and German ale, and laughed at the weird and wonderful passing our little spot in the street. Had mind-blowing, sweaty sex, over and over. Watched Trailer Park Boys on YouTube and ordered takeaways so we wouldn’t have to go shopping. Played 8-ball with a couple of friends and smoked a not-so-sneaky joint outside the pub. Got drunk and stoned and laughed at nothing, for days on end.

Now, it’s Wednesday morning – almost 5am – and I’m sitting on my bed, wide-awake, cannabis smoke floating in the air and through the detritus which covers my bedroom. I don’t know what happened; a miniature hurricane, I can only assume. Pill packets and incense sticks are cluttering up my desk, along with bottles of nail varnish remover, jewellery holders, and empty tobacco packets. The coffee I made is strong and bitter, with grounds still floating on top, and my mouth is dry from all the smoke. I haven’t slept, and I have a doctor’s appointment at 9:30.

After such an amazing, hedonistic weekend… I should be happy. I am, really. I’m just… eh. Angry, I suppose.

I’ve occasionally mentioned having tendonitis. Acute Achilles tendonitis, to be exact. I’ve had it for over a year. There was no real obvious cause; the sole of my foot started aching every time I moved and, in a worryingly short space of time, I lost the ability to flex my foot up or down. I stuck it out for months, deciding it was yet another frustrating part of fibromyalgia, until the pain became so unbearable – like knives being driven into the back of my ankle – and I woke up one morning unable to hold any weight on my left foot. It was just dead; tingling and unresponsive with sharp ribbons of pain snaking over the whole of my lower leg. Naturally, I was a bit concerned and, considering I couldn’t walk and felt a weird combination of numbness and excruciating pain – along with balloon-like swelling of my foot and ankle – I went to A&E.

Long story short, I was given some painkillers and told to go home and rest. I wasn’t even seen by a doctor. I cried, but it got me nowhere. After going to my GP to complain that nothing was done to help the obvious damage, I was referred to a podiatrist/physiotherapist. He manipulated my foot, gave me insoles to force the tendon into place, and covered my ankle in ice until it burned. Whatever he did, the swelling refused to go down and so he referred me onto the biomechanics clinic to see a rheumatologist who specialises in movement.

Of course, they wrote to me and informed me that my appointment was to be moved to September.

That’s not why I’m angry. I’m angry because, after over a year, I’m still in pain. It’s yet another ridiculous sensation to deal with, and I’m sick of being pushed from pillar to post when nothing really seems to achieve anything. I’ve had an ultrasound scan, but still – over a month later – don’t know the results.

For the past four days, I’ve been unable to walk without standing on tip-toe on my left foot, because the tendon is so damn tight I can’t move it without pain. Tooth-gritting, wincing, tears-in-the-eyes pain. S has been his usual amazing self – fetching cups of coffee for me and helping me get over the back door step – but now that I’ve come back to my mother’s after an extended weekend (from Thursday to last night; S took some time off work) I’m quickly sinking into the old frustrations and regrets about not pushing harder for treatment. I’m such a mouse sometimes. I don’t want to tell anybody what to do.

That has to change today. Originally, I was seeing my doctor for a swollen finger; hardly the medical drama of the century, but a very painful inconvenience, and I figured I could get the whole blood pressure/side-effects/general emotional well-being stuff out of the way for another month or so. However, the red skin and suspicious ridged nail will have to take a backseat, because I’m determined to get something done about this damn foot today.

If I have to cry, I think I will. I rarely cry in front of doctors – I already feel inferior to them – but quite honestly… I just want this pain to stop. I have enough to deal with already, and I just need some respite. Some time to enjoy the effects of Lyrica – which doesn’t work on tendon pain or swelling – and try to start living my life again. Instead, this fucking tendon has taken over my life.

Over the weekend, the photograph of myself I posted has been weighing on my mind. Did I do the right thing? Am I utterly off my head to think that putting a photograph on such a personal blog is a good idea? More than once, I’ve thought about removing it; just deleting the post and forgetting it ever happened. However, doing that would also mean I’d lose all the comments which, although hard to read without wanting to run away, really made me feel secure, and my cold old heart was pretty damn warmed by knowing there are people reading this who don’t think I’m disgusting.

Also… nothing is ever lost on the internet. It’s there forever now.

So I just need to suck it up and accept that my anonymity was ruined a while ago, and it’s not like I’m a celebrity. The chance of somebody I know finding this blog on their own is still lower than low, and if they did find it… well, maybe they shouldn’t be so nosy. Perhaps they’d learn something.

I should really write a list for my GP. Each time I see him, I forget something vital. I only refuse to do it because my mother insists I write a bullet-point list – typed and printed – for every appointment; a bit of teenage rebellion which I never quite grew out of. This time… I haven’t slept. I haven’t drunk nearly enough coffee, and the weed is stronger than usual. Great for pain; not so great for thinking clearly.

If I throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum, do you think it’d achieve anything? I feel like it’s about time to direct my anger elsewhere than at myself.

 

Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way

Diet cherry Coke and The Sims. A joint. My laptop screen. The only things keeping me company as I attempt to pull an all-nighter to reset my body clock. Stupid daylight saving, stupid upside-down sleep weekend.

The weather was beyond glorious over the weekend, and S and I spent most of it sat in his landlord’s garden, smoking, drinking red wine and talking about nothing. On Friday, I sat under the veranda of the pub and waited for him to finish work, nervous with anticipation and apprehension about telling him we’re not going to be able to rent the house. Sat and smoked, feeling a bit paranoid I was being watched; a silly delusion, but happens when I’m stressed.

Of course, I needn’t have worried. I need to stop letting myself panic so much; S has proved over and over he’s not about to run away screaming if I hint at any commitment. We had a drink and I told him I’d had a message from the woman, saying she was going  to sell instead of rent it out. S just shrugged and said, “oh well, we’ll have to find somewhere else then”. We spent an hour or so looking at flats and houses online, and – surprisingly – there were quite a few nice ones within our budget.

I had to let paranoia get a small look-in, so I asked S if he really still wanted to live with me.

“Of course, i want to wake up with you every day, I need to live with you”.

Where did I get that man from? And can I never have to give him back, please?