I’ve not written a blog post for almost 5 weeks. I’ve been getting worse and worse at keeping in contact with friends. I’ve cancelling going to the cinema once a week for the past month. It’s not as cut and dry as not wanting to do anything or see anyone – I really want to see Guardians of the Galaxy. I desperately want to have the enthusiasm to do things, but it’s just not happening. Nothing seems to make me happy right now. I don’t know what happens to the days, they just melt away. We sent the rabbits away for two weeks to be professionally bonded. We had so many plans of things to do without the tie of having to be home to look after the bunnies… but none of it happened because I just never wanted to do anything. I’m so glad they came back friends. Sometimes they are the only “people” I see in a week, other than my boyfriend.
This is what happens when I’m feeling depressed, right before shit really hits the fan. I go round and round in circles of being super critical of myself and of my boyfriend, then feeling guilty about being a jerk to him. Then comes in the self-loathing leading to me doubting every fibre of my being. I get to the point that I doubt my diagnosed physical illness. I ask myself whether I’m just a work-sky, attention seeking loser with a pathetic pain threshold, buggering up everyone else’s Zen. Then I stand up and my hip gives way and I’m reminded that the hypermobility branch of my shitty existence is very much real.
I just want to sleep. Part of this is due to hypermobility being a massive energy drain. My muscles have to work ten times harder than “normal” to keep my joints from popping out. Living with constant pain is exhausting. These Decapeptyl injections (hormone therapy) make me feel like a menopausal woman – this also zaps the energy clean out of me. But there is another aspect to it… I just don’t want to face the world. Facing the world means pressure and I think I have subconsciously known that any additional pressure is going to make me snap sooner rather than later. My bed is my safe haven, even though it makes my joint pain worse when I languish in bed until lunch time.
With me lying in bed all day, our flat has become a complete dump. There is a mountain of washing, I’ve not put my clean clothes away for weeks, and there is (what feels like) an inch of dust on every surface… This makes me miserable. Even writing this, I know it’s what most people call acceptably clean and tidy. It just feels like it’s all getting on top of me and it makes me want to scream. Feeling the need to give the image of having my shit together is, annoyingly, hard-wired into my head. Today, our landlord sent a guy over to re-paint the ceiling above the shower, and it gave me un-holy, completely out of proportion stress levels last night… which got projected onto my poor sod of a boyfriend. The idea of people being in my house when it’s messy stresses me out more than anything.
Small things feel like mountainous, looming issues. So I avoid them. I know I need to call rheumatology and chase up a referral to London to see a doctor who can do more than flap around in the dark hoping that what they do helps me. I know I need to chase up gynaecology about what the fuck I’m meant to do as my doctor has quit and I was meant to be reviewed a month ago. I need to figure out what to do about this pain clinic physio who, frankly, feels like a massive waste of time and energy. Who knows what is going on with ENT and septoplasty/turbinate reduction?! I need to contact MaxFacs about my MRI results and genetics about echocardiogram results… I need to see Guardians of the sodding Galaxy. There is so much I need to do that I can’t even think of it all. My brain just plays it’s “nope” card and sort of functions at 50%. Is my body trying to save me from myself? It feels like it.
I hate this. I hate this as much as when I’m feeling suicidal and hopeless. Suicidal and hopeless feels somewhat justified at the time. This just feels like I am unable to be grateful for the things I have and to make the most of what I can physically do. It feels like I’m allowing friendships to fall by the wayside and just feel completely numb about it. It feels like I’m bullying my absolute favourite person on earth. I’m depressed and it turns me into an absolute arsehole. Even writing my own blog, I feel like a self-indulgent loser who needs to pull her socks up. I just can’t.