Tag Archives: sadness

The Past Collides With The Present…



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.







Pain Hurts In Many Ways…

This is one of those bad days. And weeks. And months. Actually, let’s go nuts and say years… So far 2014 has sucked pretty bad. As was the last two or three months of 2013.

I’m in pain. I can’t work. I have to walk the dog, even though I rather struggle to walk from the pain (so I hook him up with harness and a lead and he actually pulls me, otherwise I can’t really go much of anywhere). And I’ve had to now turn down my wedding invitation to my cousin’s wedding, which I was really looking forward to seeing, because it’s about 300 miles away in Liverpool and I have trouble making it to the corner of my street (I live on the second house down from the corner). So that really sucks too.

I resent the fact I am “too ill to work”… My boss’ absolute opinion. Which is why he’s given me notice to stop working there. Apparently it seems that they quite like it when you turn up and work and stuff for them to give you money. They also apparently aren’t all that elated when you, well, can’t. Even when it’s not your fault and can’t move or walk or sit or stand. Not without a crapload of help, a back brace, and so many painkillers you have no idea what your name is, let alone where you are, or what your job even is… Opiate-based painkillers are just legalised haze of mild tripping for me. They’re not too great, but they make the pain kinda go away, so they’re also pretty good at the same time.

It can all get a bit confusing.

I’ve been trying to work from home. But I am currently locked out of my work laptop. Again. So I’m not happy. And rather bored. Despite the fact I’m fairly sure I will not do a very good job at wherever it is that is expected of me – if I actually manage to remember what it is. Data analysis is not so compatible with being three-sheets-to-the-wind.

I’m also staying in living room because feel mighty depressed and there’s naughty things in kitchen. Like knives. OK, they’re permanently blunt – for good reason – but it’s still not good to be there right now. The painkillers exasperate it all – give me that detached and numb feeling you get with depression. And nauseous. Very nauseous. Then the pain also makes me feel nauseous, and then disinterested and angry and upset and frustrated. As well as pointless, pitiful, and tearful.

It all basically replicates feeling that awful darkness coming back – so I’m not sure if it is, or whether everything together is just mimicking it all very well.

So I don’t want to eat anything, or do anything, or care about anything. I’ve had awful panic attacks, agoraphobia is having a party in my head, I’m getting awful vertigo between the pills, the pain and the fear, and I very nearly wanted to end it all yesterday.

Basically, I’m in pain and feel pretty bad. Pretty lonely. Pretty pointless. Pretty lost. Pretty sad.

I wish there was an A&E unit for broken brains, for when you feel like this. Stockpiled with tea, cuddles, puppy dogs, cats, and specially trained people to listen to you cry. Why is there no emergency services dedicated to people with conditions that make you want to do very bad things to yourself…? Unless you’ve actually overdosed, or actually there’s not much a regular ambulance crew can do for you. I would certainly appreciate one that doesn’t come with defibs and bandages, but instead comes with a listening ear, a Starbucks barista, an incredibly cute little doggy or adorable cat, and maybe a stockpile of emergency chocolate. One with trained professionals who know how to stop you from wanting to run to the kitchen for a knife, or the medicine cupboard for everything inside it. One that comes when you’re pushed beyond your limits and you need someone to stop you needing the real ambulance.

I have an appointment with the doctor again. I’m going to be asking to be dumped on a CBT waiting list. I need help dealing with being left suddenly incapable of doing anything without a boatload of painkillers and angry stubbornness. I hope I manage to stay in one piece until then. The last time I put myself in hospital was 15 years ago… I’d like to continue to be able to say that. I really don’t want the end of that sentence to suddenly read “today…”

Doggy (that would be Soul, my loving Staffy mixup) is with me now, lying on me… protecting me. In the state I’m in now, I don’t want to contemplate what I may have considered if he wasn’t here.

Luckily, he is.


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