Today, I found an old (former?) friend on Facebook (…where else?!). I haven’t seen her since she left for Australia with her family when we were 12 years old. I happened to be looking through old photos and wondered if she was on there. And she was. And I saw her as she was now… 25 years later.
Married. Three boys. High School Graduate. Still close to her family. Her sister shared the same (birth) name as I did, and she was also mentioned on there – married also. Looking almost exactly the same as she had done, just older. I recognised her picture… That smile was always so bright and infectious, it was instantly recognisable, if nothing else.
My instinct was to say Hi. Naturally. Since she would never be able to find me on Facebook (I deliberately ensured that no one from my previous life could find me first), I thought it would be nice to get in contact, because before she left we were the best of friends and fellow Beatlemaniacs. In the pictures we looked like we were having a great time. But after that initial thought… another feeling came over me.
My reaction to finding her wasn’t quite what I was expecting at all. I ended up with that now-familiar shockwave I get when I realise that what “normal” people with their average lives take for granted, I never can. When I see what other people my own age are doing… in glaring comparison to mine. And I was left feeling… Sad. Inadequate. Pathetic. Lost. Forsaken. Broken. Pointless. A Nothing; A No-One.
She had a husband… I had Fibromyalgia. She had three boys… I had what felt like a hundred pills a day to take. She looked like she was doing well… I had a wheelchair and a catheter that refused to stay put. She was living a good life… I was barely alive and broken into too many pieces to even count. She lived in Australia… I lived with my elderly(ish) parents (and don’t tell them I said that!) who have to care for every damned need I have, despite my being the very wrong side of 30 (and I used to think saying “the wrong side of 20” was a tragedy…).
What on earth was I ever supposed to say to her?
All I could ever offer was the possible bad news (or unfortunate news, at least) that her former [best] friend was a wheelchair-reliant, mobility-impaired Fibromyalgia sufferer, who could no longer do anything, nor remember much of anything, and lived in constant and consistent agony. Was I only to simply talk about what I used to do – what I once was? I had no conversation, nothing to offer, and what use could there possibly be from bothering her with a G’d Day from me?
And no, it’s not about falling for some “perfection” boloney that most people put on there (there is surprisingly little about her life on here, except some recent pictures of her boys, who look adorable anyhow), and then putting my life up against them. I don’t do that anyway. It’s about the fact that what other people have, and take for granted, was never mine to enjoy, or have. There is almost no one I know, if anyone, that is in the same situation as me. Immobile, in agony, with a life lost at age 32, now living with and being taken care of by my parents for almost everything, as if I’m some kind of overgrown toddler (sort of, I’m not exactly that much taller than a child!).
Every small thing brings home what I’m not. How broken I am. What has been lost. What nothing has been left behind. I hate the self-pity… But after nearly five damned years of this, I still yet have no idea how to process all of this. Because there is no How or answer to Why… It’s something that exploded from nowhere and no one can ever explain it. Leaving me struggling to do the most basic of things, and dignity be damned! I haven’t had any of that for a while now…
This woman is a memory of what could have been, what may have been. When I knew her I was a young child with endless possibilities. Before the serious bullying (it turned out that it was she who was inadvertently keeping me safe from this, as it started up almost the moment she was gone…) that destroyed my childhood and teenage years, as well as the first half of my 20s. Before umpteen illnesses and allergies – not to mention the Fibro. Before I was killed inside and a zombified vampire of a soul returned to attempt to survive and cope with whatever little that was left of me.
She left just before the shit hit the fan… so the (rather spotty and sporadic) memories, the seemingly unending amount pictures of her or the two of us, the girl that I had been and that I was back then, all are shadows long lost to the older, destroyed woman I am now. Seeing me then, with her, innocent and ignorant of the hell that was to come for the next Quarter-Decade of life, was a shock. I don’t remember those times – I don’t remember most of my entire life – so I have no recollection of who I was before. But in those pictures I was introduced to her. This person I was. Alongside my friend. I was smiling. Having fun. Clearly being silly and enjoying it. Being Beatlemaniacs together. Being in the first year of high school together (before that school played its part in pulling me apart). It was a relationship full of fun, hope, and playfulness. Without a single clue as to what was going to come next…
And thusly, contacting her would achieve nothing but encouraging the Ghost of Life-Once-Was to haunt me again. They’re haunting me enough as it is. This woman isn’t really the same person who was my friend. She’s no longer CE but Mrs. H, a mother, whatever else she has become. The only thing that is still the same is that infectious smile, and her kind and sparkling eyes.
I do not remember the past, so it must be best to let sleeping dogs lie. I was long traumatised by everything that happened to me, and probably the best thing is that I have forgotten. Retrograde Amnesia happens in PTSD for a reason, after all – and I’ll kind-of thank Pregablin for deleting the rest. I may not have much Short or Long Term Memory, but although that is annoying and unfortunate at times, it’s a good thing most of the time, and it’s best not to go rooting around what’s there in my mind.
Therefore, Mrs. H, née CE, I think it still best you still don’t know where I am or how to contact me. I ensured my old name is not linked to my online footprint or profiles for good reason. My past should stay where it is. In the pictures. In memories. In the past.
Already yet another Fibro/Fatigue flare-up… and just before Yulemas (as in Yule / Christmas). And just when I want to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi, too…
More fever, more pain, more exhaustion: I’ve been up all night for days, I’ve barely slept in nearly a week. Needless to say it is not going well. It’s a good thing I have my new mattress and catheter… I know exactly how much worse it would have been if I didn’t have those.
The worst feeling is that I still cannot reconcile how much absolute control this/these condition(s) have over me, how it dictates my personality, how the pain and exhaustion prevent me from even leaving my room or sometimes even my bed. During a flare-up I can do virtually nothing, and it seems that no matter what precautions I attempt, they’ll turn up whether I like it or not.
So you might not be surprised to know I would rather Yulemas disappear and I couldn’t care less about it this year. I can barely muster the energy to even want to see The Last Jedi and I’ve been so excited about this for two years. My friend and I were supposed to go to Christmas thing at Lyme Park too, and after a whole load of flare-ups, one after another, after another, that now is too off the table, amongst many other things. It better not take Star Wars away from me…
There’s so much I had plans to do, now it’s Yulemas, nearly the end of 2017, and I’ve achieved precisely nothing from this year (unless you could finally finishing PC edition of Dragon Age II…). Instead of achievements, it’s been yet another year of loss. Even losing my best friend to a year or two travelling around South America (although, bless her, she still makes sure she’s there for me if I need her).
The weather has destroyed so much of my health (whatever flimsy amount of it there was), everything from severe storms and torrential rains, to terrifyingly low isobars and bloody snow. Plans have been destroyed. I lost the remainder of my mobility this year.
It’s been quite the Annus Horribilis.
And I doubt it’s going to get any better in its final week.
So, I got a catheter. It’s been three days so far – well, two and a half really – it was put late Monday afternoon and its technically 4:30am Thursday morning. The struggle to get to and from the bathroom was getting ridiculous, and the final straw was when I passed out for six hours straight in there when I tried to go, last week – then ending up with a complete memory block for the entire day: All I know about it s whatever I have been told.
My mother called up the next day and told them it couldn’t wait any longer, so they put me on the list for this past Monday.
It was scary, and uncomfortable… but ironically, the worst bit was having the numbing gel put on – my paraesthesia did not like that at all… The procedure itself was over with before I realised – and I suspect it would be easier to have it without the Lidocaine. The procedure must be done every three months, so the best way needs to be figured out, if I must endure it four times per year.
It’s more than worth it, however. Already, there is a difference with nausea and bloating pain levels, other pain levels, and I’ve been able to play games and physically relax a little because the agony and exhaustion of going to the bathroom has been eliminated. I’ve not had half as much alcohol because there’s less paraesthesia pain due to less movement and exhaustion. After being quite badly dehydrated for years, forced into ignoring thirst and almost never drinking, puffy with water retention and with very dry and cracked lips, I’ve been drinking all the juice and water I can, and taking holistic water retention tablets, which are great and work a treat (and arguably too well, since I have to drain the bag an awful lot!). I feel amazingly better, lighter (like someone took away some of the cement living inside me) and I no longer feel bloated and pregnant with quadruplets. I can even straighten my back a little again.
Turns out long-term dehydration and water-retention isn’t very good for you at all…
Also – well, later on today, I suppose – I’ll be receiving a new Hypnos mattress (the same as they have in the Premier Inn rooms that have been helping deal with a lot of my pain), which will hopefully allow me to bring my pain levels down enough to make it more manageable (i.e. under 10) and thus allow me to take a break from the rather icky grape juice and Courvoisier. I hope it might help with the Fatigue, too, even if its just a little. It should be coming sometime between 11am and 3pm, and the room has to be organised so the mattress can get in (it’s pretty big).
I would like to hope it’s the advent of starting to regain some control over this, even for a short while. Historically, that just never happens – it all goes horribly wrong right after… so, I’m just going to just have to see how this one plays