Sick! Sick! Sick!

Those words irritate me because it’s pretty much the entirety of my life right now. Sickness, being debilitated, run down, operating on half battery life, if I’m lucky. It’s hard work to pretend to be well all the time. To fight through this quagmire of illness. I don’t really talk about it all that much because I was brought up to be strong, independent and above all to never complain. I guess that has prevented me from actually being able to tell people, even my own family how much pain I’m really in on a daily basis. I don’t want to be a burden. And yet, I feel that’s exactly what I am.

Basically, I’ve had issues with my spine. A large ruptured prolapse that required two surgeries, 18mths apart, but it hasn’t resolved all issues. In fact, it’s caused problems of its own. The back pain, hip pain can be horrible. Then, apparently I now have Fibromyalgia. A dodgy liver, high cholesterol (the bad kind and the bad, bad kind!), high blood pressure and the latest development, which I’ve been putting up with for a year, is trigeminal neuralgia. I’ve been given a new drug for this, which has been causing me no end of flipping side effects, but I can’t speak to a doctor until Wednesday because the doctor that prescribed it isn’t available until then. So, I’ll be back to be unable to sleep, feeling like my head’s about to explode and not being able to bear the slightest touch or breath of air on face. Wonderful. I’ve had six years of this c**p and to be honest I’m at the end of my tether. There seems to be no end in sight. My back is a timebomb waiting to go off. I have more prolapses in my back that haven’t ruptured, yet.

All of this can, at times, prevent me from living any semblance of a normal life. I try my hard to do all I did before. Housework, organising the household, cooking and making sure everything’s running smoothly as possible, but it’s a burden these days to do the simplest of tasks. Even breathing can be painful. Thinking clearly even harder.

At one time in my life, I believed wholeheartedly that I would be an author someday. That I would be successful writer, with many books under my belt. And while I have managed to self-publish a few short stories and a novella, I haven’t been able to accomplish all I dreamed. In fact, I’ve come to a point, where I think it’d be better to shelve those dreams and just concentrate on trying to survive.

Apologies for being a misery and thanks to anyone who reads this 🙂

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