It Shouldn’t Be Impossible… So Why Is It?

I’m not entirely sure how to start this post or how to stop it being a mess of word vomit on your screen, so I will apologise in advance and then… begin.

I fell asleep to the sound of Bastille last night, which means that it’s also what I woke to after a pretty terrifying (and hospital-themed) nightmare. This was a good sound to wake up to, because it instantly pulled me to somewhere safer. I hoped that after some sleep, my mind may be better equipped to fight the fires razing it to the ground; but hope, as I have been taught by experience, is often far above reality. 

The alarming downward spiral my brain hopped on last night was met with an incredible level of kindness and understanding by the staff. Nobody has ever seen me like that – even myself. The fact that it was a thing at all was in itself highly distressing to me. But among all the feels, I found words to describe how overwhelmed I was, and after being told that it was ok and understandable and brave and other such illogical responses, those words eventually filtered through to the next shift of nurses (as did news of my tears). It also reached the doctors. The consultant on the ward this week is also the clinical director. Upon learning of my overwhelmed state and realising (as everyone else already had) that a whole group of doctors walking into my room was going to be way, way too much for me, he wandered in by himself and explained that he thought that would be better. When I was in hospital before, after several doctors did awful and sometimes negligent things which traumatised me and on occasion left me in ICU intubated or almost dead (both physically and eventually emotionally), my paediatrician used to make ward round skip me and walk in alone so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. My brain isn’t sure how it feels about this parallel. 

He stood at the end of the bed and spoke softly, kindly. Like a human. My brain pedalled desperately in an attempt to seize its opportunity and find its voice, but the chain kept slipping. He confirmed what I was told yesterday – the minor surgery today has to happen. He said I may be here a long while. I tried to process that but still the chain kept slipping. I couldn’t words. I tried not to cry just at his presence and at the same time found a huge amount of comfort in it because it meant a plan and an explanation and… reassurance. 

He asked me if it was ok to go ahead with it, and I said yes. I said yes in a voice that wasn’t mine – it was quiet and montonous and strained and I was dead inside. He asked if today was ok, because it needs to happen as soon as possible. Again, defeated and unable to fight myself, I made what I knew was the right call. I said yes. Because logic is still there. Logic knows that I need this procedure and I need these drugs. It isn’t that I’m not thinking positively or logically. It’s not that any of this is a conscious choice because I’d choose the procedure – I did. 

Consciously I force my thoughts to be positive and logical and do what I know has to happen, but subconsciously this huge tidal wave gathers and swells and sweeps all that away. Consciously thinking things to override feelings all the time is not only ineffective but exhausting. I didn’t have the energy to explain how I felt. The pedals were still slipping and I couldn’t find words and I didn’t have the energy to reawaken my emotions. So I said yes, just like I did with the blood test yesterday (and even though I freaked, logic made me hold my arm steady and let the doctor feel for veins as subconsciously I collapsed – thankfully the latter was obvious and noted via the involuntary expression on my face and change to my body language and voice, and she decided it was too much for me to deal with then). 

He left the room and the chain stopped slipping. My brain pedalled so fast that it swiftly arrived back where it had been the night before, and tears occurred. This was not a good time to need IVs. My nurse walked in, concerned because he had been told about the emotional effects of everything. He told me he couldn’t even imagine what this situation is like, but that tears were very much an understandable part of it and that it made complete sense to him. And then he went to draw up the IV that makes me feel like death. I mean honestly, it makes me feel so unwell I can’t get out of bed, it leaves me unable to look at light and with awful eye and head pain, and my body generally just rebels against it. Physically my current situation isn’t hard, it isn’t unmanageable – I can cope with the pain and all the rest of it. But I cannot cope with the mental impact of all of that, especially not when the awfulness is added to by EVIL IN IV FORM. 

He offered me IV pain medication. Logic told me that was a smart idea because my chest hurts A LOT. But physical pain is something I’m used to, something I can handle, something I can live with (if only the emotions it induces were easier to handle). I wasn’t bothered by the pain. I was dead inside. And I still just couldn’t. That was the first thing I refused. Then two more IVs. Then EVIL IN IV FORM, which I actually need to bully my body into better health. I tried so hard to say yes, I’d sometimes even say it and then something else snaked around my logic and choked the life out of it and I’d just collapse under its weight and sit there torn – silently trying not to let go of the right thing and desperate to be able to go through with it but being pulled back by something raw and animal that I cannot control. 

I honestly don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can go through with it. 

Writing this has been interrupted by a visit from a diabetes specialist nurse who I can only describe as a LEGEND. He’s awesome and pops in for a catch up when he’s doing the ward rounds because type 1 diabetics are very rare in this hospital (there are currently 1 or 2 of us among a list of patients almost as long as his arm, and the record is 3 type 1s at once). And then the speech and language therapist walked in to discuss the inflammation in my throat and how I’m going to get nutrition when I am unable to swallow any consistency of food or drink due to the after-effects of being intubated (which is why they are reluctant to intubate me for the procedure today). Talk turned to NG tubes and again I know that’s a smart and sensible idea so logic tried to engage, but the pedals in my mind slipped again and it hurt and I was like “I’m so sorry I can’t do this today. I can’t do anything today”. I refused another thing. 

The nurse keeps coming in to give me EVIL IN IV FORM and I literally just cannot even let him prepare it. And I don’t know how to go through with this procedure. It could mean bad news if it goes ahead and I can’t deal with that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me as a human to make me behave this way. I don’t like that I can’t control it and that it speaks over the logic and appreciation that I am consciously and deliberately aware of. Have you ever made the right call and not been able to take it?

They’re pushing me and pushing me to have EVIL IN IV FORM because I need it and it can cause all sorts of problems if I don’t, and they are giving me logical arguments and going on and on like I’m clueless. It’s too much. My brain is making that argument too all by itself, but something else just shouts it down. They don’t appreciate that, they go on an on and I’m so terrified of medical staff because of my PTSD that it feels like bullying even though it’s concern and kindness. They see this situation without any of the emotion, without living through the things I have somehow lived through, and they cannot possibly understand that it isn’t as simple as the black and white scenario they present and push and push. I feel trapped and pressured and even more overwhelmed and so now I’m just sat crying as I write this, wondering what on earth possessed me to post this and feeling the need to apologise for doing so. I feel so helpless. 

I don’t know how to do it. Any of it.

I’m so broken I don’t even want to run away any more. There’s none of me left. They’ve taken it all. I’m gone.

I Can’t Hide It Any More

I can tell you now that I probably won’t post for the next few days (to compensate for that, this one is very long). I won’t post because I’m struggling to post now, struggling to think and tolerate the combinations of words I keep typing and deleting and typing and deleting. I am self critical at the best of times. Right now, I hate everything about myself, and everything that occurs as a result of my actions. Right now, I’m almost in tears. But there is a panic. Not a pure panic, an emotive panic (only way I can think to describe it); my mind is backpedalling and scrabbling for something to hold onto and stamping on a brake pedal attached to wires that have been cut. Because I go back to university on Monday, and for weeks that has felt very, very far away. Until now. Until Monday the 9th of January is the day after tomorrow, and I have to start planning things, and even attempting to find out what time train to catch and thinking about the journey I have to make stresses me and makes my mind have an internalised panic attack until it shuts down and I smother some other thought over reality to stop it breaking me.

I can’t cope. With reality, with people, with functioning. I am trying so so hard to find it within myself to try as hard as I occasionally manage to, but I know things are going to fall as my sinking mind throws things overboard to try and keep itself afloat. I know this, because it’s what I’ve done for months now. And it’ll throw this blog overboard. And even when I try to post, I’ll end up sat for an hour getting frustrated at my inability to write what I want to say, what I want to project. Today I want to be upbeat and hide the way I feel, and I also want to let it out, and I can’t balance that in a big long string of words.

(T R I G G E R     W A R N I N G – I’m getting as sick of writing that as you will be of reading it, so I’m putting it in different ways now).

Today my mum and I left for London in the morning and packed up everything in my accommodation. I didn’t do anything. I sort of sat there and stress-ate my way through an entire packet of cracker-type biscuits. I looked out the window, because when I turned around and looked at the chaos everywhere, my brain couldn’t see a way through it or around it and it got so stressed I almost cried. Logic deserted me. Logic would have told me that we had a system and we were sorting things and it was all going to go into the car and it just needed to be organised better. I don’t know what the rest of me thought, because it just caved in around me and deserted me as well. Pathetic. Illogical. I don’t like not understanding myself, I don’t like not being able to think my way out of a thing. I don’t like being out of control… And I was. I am.

My mum forgot bin bags to put my bedding and stuff in, so I had to walk back to where she parked her car to try and find them. She’d parked down a small side-road next to the ambulance station which is behind my accommodation. Thankfully, there were no ambulances outside, because they tend to induce panic, given my history with hospitals and the fact that they are always at the end of an ambulance ride. I found the bin bags (not that you care, don’t know why I’m even writing this). I had popped into the shop on the way to buy a bunch of food to eat (my subconscious reaction to the failure of any other alternative coping mechanism that didn’t involve not existing. Maybe if the monster was fed, it would stop trying to consume my life? No. But anyway). I was carrying this bag of shopping that had everything in it, and I was breaking and hurting and desperate and giving up… And my heart wanted what my heart wanted. And my head couldn’t rationalise well enough to tell it no. And I’d passed so many joggers and it broke me EVERY time. So I ran.

Only ten metres (actually, only past the ambulance station). I accidentally picked the perfect place to be such an idiot (even though in that moment it didn’t feel stupid, and it still doesn’t even though I know it was) because on a quiet, empty road right beside a building full of paramedics (where no humans other than those paramedics would see you in the mortifying situation you may end up in) is the PERFECT place to take a risk on a flaky organ, right?

I ran. I just ran. I couldn’t not. Honestly, I could not stop myself. Sirens were screaming in my head like STOP YOU IDIOT STOP. But there was this smile that I couldn’t not smile, and this huge, overpowering voice just shouted back BUT FEEL THIS. FEEL THIS. RIGHT IN THIS MOMENT I DON’T FEEL LIKE THERE’S NO WAY. RIGHT IN THIS MOMENT I AM OK. FEEL HOW GOOD THAT FEELS. WE’RE RUNNING, MONSTER, AND YOU CAN’T CATCH US. And I went with that voice. And it felt like I ran for minutes and minutes. Just a short little burst of jogging, and my mind was a bearable place to be.

But my body was not.

This seismic event happened in my chest as my heart rebelled, apparently siding with my brief and apparently fickle logical thoughts. I stopped running when I hit the pavement again (yes, I ran in the middle of the road, on the wrong side of the road, and I couldn’t see if there were cars coming, and they wouldn’t have seen me until it was too late, and I realise this now but right then I didn’t care). I walked, but there was this smile on my face and this spring in my step and this BUZZ running through me. My chest hurt. It HURT like it hasn’t for a long time, and the tremors of my cardiac earthquake returned to my no-longer-home with me, but my goodness I felt free. For the next few hours my heart hated me. It shouted at me and I ignored it. The inability to cope took over, sitting there while my room was sorted was exhausting, because at the moment even passive things like trying to watch TV are too much for my mind. And I kept just feeling trapped, not in the room, but in myself. I wanted to tear myself apart and let myself out. I wanted to put my hands on my head and tear away the hair and scalp and bone and whichever parts of my brain were being so illogical and unhelpful and destructive, and I wanted to release the suffocating, withering remains of myself. And I couldn’t. I withdrew. I curled up. I stared out of the window, but joggers kept running along the canal and through the park and every step they took was like a dagger in my mind and I just didn’t know how to… Be.

Driving to London this time wasn’t as stressful as usual. Leaving was nowhere near as much of a lifeline. I didn’t realise how tense and stressed I’d get at certain landmarks along the journey back to university until I drove right up to campus knowing I didn’t have to go there and was suddenly free from it. I half expected the ground to open up and swallow the car as we drove away, knowing I would never step foot in that area of that building again, that I’d just ended a part of my life… But it didn’t. I couldn’t care enough about anything to feel about it. I felt heavy. We went back to my parents house. My dad had driven up to collect a car load of stuff and it was piled high in the hallway when we walked in.

And then my little brother and nephew got home. They’d been out and bought lots of packets of sweets just to get the free temporary tattoos inside. Now, I’ve wanted an actual tattoo for a while. I have multiple scars inflicted by surgeons and scalpels, but only one that fills me with the kind of shame you’re not meant to have about your scars. It’s a vertical scar from my wrist up my forearm for about 3.5cm. Most of my scars represent moving on, healing, strength. But this one was the result of medical negligence, and I have flashbacks to feeling every snip during the surgery that made it when they messed up y’know… The whole, not feeling two men cutting about inside of you thing. The surgery was to fix a mistake. It was an emergency at the end of me going for six hours of tests and ending up ventilated in intensive care instead. And it’s right over my radial artery, and when 16 year old me remembered that, it became a “if you ever want to die, just cut along the dotted line”. It’s super sensitive and dead to all feeling in different parts, but it hurts just to look at sometimes. Because during the events that left me with PTSD, I slept with my teeth to that scar, wanting to bite down and end it all but too afraid to sin. So I hoped in my sleep I might sneeze or bite down. And that’s what that scar was, my way out. My saviour. My only saviour. But people always notice. They immediately assume it is a self harm scar and so they judge. Doctors, university colleagues, strangers who don’t even know me. I wear a lot of wristbands on that arm to try and cover it, but they move, and people see it, and I see it. And then my nephew gave me a temporary tattoo of the wonderwoman logo that is about 5-6cm long. I was going to put it where the cannula goes in at my infusion site, or over my heart or on my chest – somewhere only I knew where it was. But then I saw the scar. And for so long I’ve wanted a tattoo of an ECG trace to cover that scar, or an anatomically correct heart (I am undecided, hence no tattoo… Also, because of my health hiccups, I can’t get actual tattoos, but hey, I’d do anything right now).

I put a wet sponge over the paper and waited for the image to transfer, and when I pulled it away, I laughed. And then I shouted YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE IT! OH MY GOODNESS YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE IT, IT’S GONE! LOOK! I was so excited. The scar is a good few millimetres thick, and it looks like it’s raised. It’s a different colour from my skin and it’s so obvious I didn’t think anything would hide it, but it was hidden under the longest part of the image, just poking out a little between the inverted peaks of the “W” but only I would ever notice its subtle presence there. And it was gone, just like that. Gone. To such a simple solution. It looks almost like a real tattoo. So my nephew gave me three more wonderwoman tattoos, and my little brother said he’d give me any more that he got (the designs are varied between each packet of sweets – today they bought about 20 packs each so…) And I went and bought myself three packets of candy sticks that I didn’t even want, just to try and get more things to cover that scar. The boys came with me, my little brother and I walked along together talking, and he carried my super heavy bag of shopping, while my nephew literally ran and jumped all over the place a few metres in front of us. (My little brother put a batman tattoo on his nipple – keep in mind what happens to this area of a human being when they get cold – in a rather unfortunate position which means that batman’s trousers look rather… Full. Especially when my brother is cold. He is currently wearing five temporary tattoos, but this is the only one I cried with laughter over. I am a child).

I went online and bought some better temporary tattoos – they even had them in ECG traces, so I got some of those, and some other cool designs, and a new rucksack to keep my laptop protected on my SUPER LONG commute to uni. Which I then had to start thinking about, because I have to do it on Monday. And then everything was real. And I realised how much I don’t want to go back to uni. And the dread set in. Heavy, crushing, dread. And then panic. And stress. And so many feelings my head is like a pressure cooker and I could not words. I am beyond not ok. But leaving uni or even taking a break isn’t an option. My parents made that clear. They go on about how much money I will have wasted. And I worry that going back is going to push me into an s word that will waste so much more than money – it’ll waste all the time I could have had left on the planet, all those years. And I’m not strong enough to promise I won’t do that.

The commute is fine if I can get a lift to the train station 5 miles away – then it’s just a half hour ride to a train station, a short walk to the tube and 10 minutes later I’m at uni. But when there’s nobody around (i.e. on Monday) I have to walk for 5-10 minutes to get to the bus stop, and I can’t be late because the buses here run every 30-40 minutes. Then after 20 minutes on the bus, I have to walk to the train station. I haven’t lived here for a while, I can’t remember the way, not from that direction, not on foot. I’ve no idea how long the walk will take, but I estimate around 15 minutes. Then I get on the train. Then I get on it, then walk to the tube station, then have to battle with all the stairs to get to street level… And my heart is going to HATE that. The whole 2 hour commute (including the waiting around and stuff) is like heart hell.

I get chest pain just walking slowly around the house at the moment. Getting to the shops (which isn’t as far as the bus stop I need) left me breathless and puffy with fluid. If my other health hiccups join the party and almost succeed in killing me in the fashion that at least one of them is prone to doing once every week or two (which made it a near impossible effort for me to get to uni when it was a one minute walk that literally only required me to step out of the front door and cross the road to get to campus), I won’t make it there. So then I got annoyed at the person who handled the housing situation so poorly that I ended up with no option other than to live alone. And then I forgot that, because my mum asked Auntie Godmother if I could stay with them sometimes (I’ll also be staying with my grandparents a lot, she suggests). And I just felt awful. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to bother them or make her say the things I’ve driven my mum to feel about me.

In the back of my mind I am aware that there are the three assignments I have due in on Friday, which would be ok if I even knew what they were or had been to more than 4 lectures since the start of November. I have no notes for either modules because I’ve been drowning in my mind for a long time and hiding it far too well (news flash – I can’t any more, I give up hiding I just can’t any more it’s too much energy that I no longer have, it’s all coming out in the wash and people are stunned and horrified).  I don’t even know how to deal with even thinking about work. And then exams will happen. And the world is a scary place right now in general and… (see where my mind goes with all of this. I’m a joke).

Then I thought about hospital appointments for NO APPARENT REASON. I have to rearrange the ones I was intimidated into just letting people book. Only for one health hiccup, because I could only deal with trying to see one team, but they made a load of appointments with different specialists in that area and I’m like NO THANKS. I have to rearrange them for days when I’m actually in London (all my health care has been based in London for a few years because I’m complicated and London hospitals are like… The top of their field in the country, most of the time), which is how things used to be. No more early morning appointments because I AM NOT getting a commuter train (standing for that long will overwhelm Skippy, and I will pass out in a heap of arrhythmia. No thank you. I’m struggling enough to even take all my medications at the moment. Some of them aren’t taken not because I don’t want to but because my brain just doesn’t seem to have the ability to think about that stuff at the minute, it’s too focussed on trying to find a reason to… Want to be alive.

And I hate that I have this attitude. It isn’t me. It isn’t who I am. Who I am is still in there shouting that I am so lucky and at least I’m not in a wheelchair now and I can walk, and at least there are buses and trains and ways to get there, and a two hour commute could always be longer. But something else throws a load of dread and stress on top of that. Every time I get it together enough to think more logically, I overthink and the stress sets in. I’m trapped inside of myself. And I hate the person I have become.

I just want to be with my dog. I am so sorry that I’m so pathetic, and so sorry that this post was so long. Thank you for reading this. Sorry. I’m trying so hard and yet failing so much more spectacularly. I don’t know why. It’s so pathetic. Nobody needs to tell me, I already know.

Bite Me.

The last couple of days have been something comparable with the lovechild of a hurricane and a rollercoaster… on steroids. Life’s favourite time to kick is when you’re already down. And yet… the kicks don’t even hurt any more. Not at the minute. There is no capacity to hurt, and when there is, there is no capacity to hurt any more. I’m starting to vaguely feel – not fully and not properly, but at least a bit more consistently.

This is where I’m going to make a weird request, because (unusually) I remembered that a handful of people are going to read what I write here. Specifically, that concern is about the 2-3 people reading this who met me before they ever read any of these posts. If you met me before this blog existed… Please don’t read the rest of this post. Not yet, anyway. I kind of… It isn’t something I want people who know me like that to really find out in a post, I think? I’ve chosen not to really talk about it to people I know yet, because hey it’s probably nothing, and I know I can’t stop anyone reading on, and that asking you not to builds a whole lot of intrigue. But please hang in there for a while. 

I mean… Now I continue, I guess.

I had a hospital appointment yesterday for a totally new thing. It isn’t new to me, but it’s the first time I’ve actually had it looked at. Long story short, earlier this year I started getting minor nosebleeds from one nostril. Then I noticed a small lump. The lump grew, the nosebleeds got far more frequent and much worse, and now there’s a constant trickle of blood down my throat and every hour or two, a red river all over my face. The lump now obstructs my entire nostril, is hard and has a bunch of blood vessels over it, and has recently changed in appearance. The back of my mouth has started to feel weird, and on the same side it looks a little different (like red and weird). I decided it was nothing, and certainly that something as pathetic as my nose wasn’t worth bothering anyone about. But I mean… It’s A LOT of blood now. So I went to see an ENT consultant, who was the first person I told about it to decide it may be a good idea to look at it.

He had an appalling bedside manner and was blunt and clinical and methodical, which I liked. He sat me in front of him and  looked at it, without saying a word got some equipment and briefly explained what he was going to do before he stuck a camera down my other nostril and into my throat, and then looked into my mouth… And then we sat across from each other at his desk and he looked up at me and without any build up said

Unfortunately there’s no treatment option other than surgery. We need to remove the mass and the underlying cartilage. Do you have any questions?

Yes! So many questions! But all I could say was… Is that going to hurt?

It’s a something-I-can’t-remember-because-I’m-half-asleep-oma, he thinks. Now I mean… Part of me had been expecting this little lump to need to be removed, but a much larger part of me thought I was going to be laughed out of his office, or maybe he’d make it bleed and just cauterise whatever bled and send me home all fixed. I did not expect him to say that there was a whatever-it-is-oma with exposed cartilage that is on/adhered to the nasal septum. Like… Surely exposed cartilage should… Hurt? Anyway he wanted bloods there and then, and a CT scan ASAP. He said he’d phone with the results. But when we went to book it all, we said I couldn’t do the scan until I’m back from uni. The first day I’ll be back for is the 19th. The scan is the first slot they have on the morning of the 20th of December. That’s… A lot quicker than I was expecting them to arrange it.

My mum and I then went for lunch, because she said that this time I had been “ok-ish” to have around. I didn’t want to go back – the whole way there I was dreading it, and she didn’t really want me to leave either I think. It was nice. We stopped at a random pub chain and ate some super nice chicken. And then we drove back to Mile End. And I was in this car that I knew was about to drive right back to exactly where I wanted to be, but that I wasn’t going to be in it when it got there. My mum pulled up outside my accommodation, got my stuff out of the car, we said a brief goodbye, and then she was gone. I hate that there’s nowhere to stop where I live. Goodbyes aren’t proper.

I went back to my room, let the door swing shut behind me and… Sobbed. I just sobbed. Uncontrollably. The room was so isolated. So… Not a family home.

And then my mum called to tell me I’d forgotten something, and I couldn’t stand speaking to her because I just wanted to go back to my dog and stuff. Same Cardiologist Uni Friend called me up and talked to me for a few hours. My plan was not to talk about my stupid nose until I know about it for sure and stuff. Oddly, I’m not phased by the thought of surgery or anything. I thought I would be or should be, but y’know… I don’t know whether it’s because I feel so ridiculous about it being my nose or whatever, but this one just doesn’t feel like something to sweat over. If the lump is harmless or has the potential to stop being harmless or if it isn’t harmless at all, the treatment is the same – get it out. I’m up for that – just get the thing out. It’s annoying, more than anything.

But anyway I was crying and I was like I don’t think I can do this. I didn’t know how to deal with anything, even for a day. I ended up almost falling asleep on the phone to my friend, and saying stuff that made no sense because I was falling asleep, so I let her go and cook her dinner and curled up fully clothed to go to sleep. My sleep was broken, it always is, but if you discount the 17-18 times I woke up or got up to treat my health hiccups, I slept from 7pm round to 9am. I was so tired.

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I did find time to tidy up and try to make my room look a little Christmassy. It isn’t much but it’s the best I could do.

And then I went to my hospital appointment. And as I sat there by the Christmas tree waiting to go in, I checked my uni emails, for some reason. And they are STILL trying to find ways to kick me out. Except this one may work, but is also ridiculous. They are getting the national crediting body (external to the university) involved, because I missed lab sessions so they are saying I might not have demonstrated the lab skills needed to become credited as a biomedical scientist. So many thoughts. Firstly, we do the same procedures in every lab – spectrophotometry, micropipettes, serial dilutions… It’s basically the same. The labs I’ve missed… Some were on the computer, one the theory was done at home… I’ve done all the skills before. To death and back. In fact, I’ve probably carried them out while literally dying. Secondly, there are people on our course who have never been to a single lab because they can’t be bothered. A couple of weeks ago, someone asked us where we are meant to submit lab reports to and how we went about it, because, half way through the first semester of his SECOND year, he had NEVER been to a lab session. Thirdly, why did nobody tell me that at the end of first year?

As if that appointment wasn’t bad enough.

I walked in, and we started talking. And she told me this story about this boy who didn’t look after his diabetes and didn’t think it would kill him but was warned and warned, and then died. Except she didn’t tell it like that. It was more emotive. And I was like… I have so many things to be scared of. And I told her about my heart being more of a pain in the butt, and my kidneys being a pain in the butt, and how I hadn’t told anyone about either of those things. But somewhere before that, or maybe during it, I just broke down. I don’t cry. If I do, it isn’t in front of people. It certainly isn’t in front of health professionals. And I just couldn’t stop. I will elaborate on why and what I said at a later stage. But out 45 minute appointment ended up going on for over 3 hours. She pulled her chair out from behind the desk and moved it so our knees were almost touching, and she leaned forward and we just talked. About it all. About all the things I couldn’t face. About how screwed my body was. About what triggered my PTSD. About where I wanted to go (in terms of a treatment plan or whatever) and all I could say was I don’t want this any more. I don’t know how to deal with it all, I just can’t cope. And she’d stop, and we’d go back, and we’d go through a whole other thing like my weight loss or fluid retention or mental health or whatever else until we ended up right back at that point. She was patient.

Anyway. I got to uni campus at 2 and sat with Same Cardiologist Uni Friend and Italian Uni Friend (two people then knew I was back, which hadn’t been my plan). I had an assignment due in at 5 that I hadn’t started. I got quite a way in, and then my computer restarted and I lost even the stuff I had saved. Life isn’t giving me lemons, it is squeezing them in my cuts. It felt pointless anyway, in light of everything else on my plate, especially as all this work may literally be for nothing now.

I concluded that the only state in which to submit my assignment would be on fire… Because that way it could never be marked, and I’d save everyone else by destroying theirs too. I was just over half way through when the fire alarm went off. I sat there with less than an hour to go and 1/4 of the thing still to do like well at least if I burn to death they might go a little easier on me. 

I was trying to care, and it just didn’t matter. Until eventually I started to focus on it instead of the everything else in my life, and putting the tiny amount of importance I could spare onto my coursework distracted me as we watched a guy try to turn his canal boat and have a crash in Regents Canal (right by the window).

I finished the thing on time. Same Cardiologist Uni Friend had to print it on her account because I forgot my student card. Italian Uni Friend had to  staple it because I couldn’t get into the library. I submitted the thing, and then I stood in the middle of the emptying science building, held my arms up in victory, looked up through the opening in the ceiling of the lobby that showed the first floor lab, and just shouted (completely out of the blue, taking myself by surprise)

“BITE ME”

Then three of us went to Stratford Westfields, where I bought a large meal in McDonalds, accompanied by a free Crunchie McFlurry (because student perks)  after I realised I hadn’t eaten all day and it was 6pm and I felt I needed something good after my day (not going to lie that’s the only reason I went). It was so cold out and I had only left the house wearing a jumper, so by the time we got there I couldn’t feel most of myself, my hands seemed to have so little blood in them they looked rather alarmingly alien, I was shivering violently, and got electric shock pains in my legs if I moved them beyond a certain point… So I bought a super cheap ski jacket… And 2 jumpers… And a Christmas jumper (all for under the price of a jumper in any other shop).

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Christmas at Stratford Westfields shopping centre. Maybe I should make it my aim to see a different part of London at Christmas time every day…?

I went Christmas shopping and got three things for my little brother to make up for not getting him a birthday present. I bought myself a book entitled Death by Stupidity – 1001 of the most astonishingly bizarre ways to bite the dust because I wanted to feel better about the fact that I’d nearly died a lot and… It hadn’t been in ridiculous ways. It’s a pretty funny book (also, people die in really, rally stupid ways).

And then, because I felt like it, I bought myself a second dinner – an AMAZING pizza.

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Only two slices of this beautiful thing made it all the way back to my flat.

And now this post, that I mostly wrote on the other side of midnight, but that will now be posted today and probably make no sense (just imagine that every “today” is actually “yesterday” i.e. the 1st of December).

Tomorrow lectures, then straight to another hospital appointment, then straight to an assessed lab session, which means I’ll have another bit of coursework due in another week. One of my friends is already fully into a revision plan already. Everyone else I talk to only has a maximum of 7 weeks of notes (and that person was only that far in for two modules out of four). Everyone is as behind as me (I have notes in lectures until about week 5, handwritten final notes for… Week 1). And they’ve been out in the real world living life, so that makes me feel a bit better.

Whoa this is way too long. I’ll stop. Bye. I mean, it wasn’t even that bad. It’s just been full on, especially with starting to feel a little bit.

Time for another dinner. At 00:20am. Like I said, bite me.