Ugh. Sooky, sooky post. I saw my arms and shoulder in the mirror today for the first time in awhile. I tend to avoid mirrors, due to the "looking like shit all the time" element. And I was incredibly frightened at how thin I look.
I know many people may think of this and be like, oh my God, I would love to be that thin. Someone, a friend, said it to me recently. "Oh my God, I would love to be that thin!". She meant no malice. But she didn't understand that this was through years of malnutrition and inability to absorb anything. The puking up all the time doesn't particularly help either.
It's not cool to comment on people looking ill. This happens to me all the time, because I've lived in the same area for over 10 years and know basically everyone around this place. Because I'm nice. Not because I'm sick. People used to call me fat, when I was on steroids. They certainly aren't doing this now. Now they just tell me I look ill.
I'm also concerned about the way the NHS is treating me. I know they're a marvellous institution, and they care, for effectively no money, but that doesn't explain why I currently get ignored despite having "urgent" marked on all referrals. My next appointment is September. I'll probably, at this rate, be dead by then.
I do my best to get up, do my best, interact. Able bodied people do not quite get how much easier it is for us to just curl up on the sofa, and cry, and sleep. I'm really struggling with this, mainly in my head. Isn't your head THE WORST?
I shall be back on good form shortly I'm sure. I just am currently staring the black dog in the face, along with my normal person issues, paying for taxis no one is asking to pay me back for (I can't walk), and just the loss of a career. I'm clearly just watching some shit TV.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday 27 June 2018
Monday 11 June 2018
I SHALL NOT GO QUIETLY INTO THE DARK NIGHT
I just watched a YouTube clip of the Daily Show host and correspondents talking about how the show is made, and my heart is full of hope. Why can't a disabled, cranky, tired British woman come and be part of that show? I would kick arse (ass? - trying to acclimatise).
This show is my dream job. Let me rephrase. Dream Job. It combines my two passions; journalism and comedy. Dear Trevor Noah, please see this and know I would move country to a place that is run by my most hated person, has terrible healthcare, and I left many years ago never to return, for the opportunity.
I spent today in "group therapy", to which, again, I was the only person to show up. Not so groupy. I'm not allowed to talk about what goes on but another lady eventually showed. And talking to her, and her situation made me angry at the world. Never mind the fact we are all about to be blown up (one hour before the summit commences), it would appear I am doing a US Election special - ie staying up to watch this shit - because I CARE. I care that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. I care that someone makes sexist and misogynistic remarks at me in public. I care that I have to deal with my own personal physical pain, and absorb everyone else's. It's a thing with an empathic. You just take it on without meaning to. And I certainly care that a grown man in the street called me a "spaz" the other day. Jesus man. It's 2018. Get a better insult you tracksuit pant wearing ingrate.
All I'm saying is it's hard for someone in my position to catch a break. I feel like I try and try and try again, and sometimes someone throws you a bone and it still ends up in the bin. All I want is to be able to do what I know I'm good at, and talented at. Goddammit, Dulce worked in call centres. Snap, mate.
I hate playing the disabled/sick card but that is what is stopping everything, and it's not right. I'm fed up, and I don't want to take it anymore. Someone start paying me for this writing or - well, I'll probably keep doing it anyway.
I'm going to get up on stage and do comedy despite not being able to stand, get up the stairs to the gig room and being fucking shit arsed terrified. But you don't make a Jamie Oliver program without using more than 5 ingredients.*
Trevor, anytime you are ready, I am here mate. I think I would be an asset. And yes, this is begging. Sorry about that.
See you on the other side, peeps. I have a colander on my head. It's airier. And the wok is too heavy.
*gag specifically for my husband.
This show is my dream job. Let me rephrase. Dream Job. It combines my two passions; journalism and comedy. Dear Trevor Noah, please see this and know I would move country to a place that is run by my most hated person, has terrible healthcare, and I left many years ago never to return, for the opportunity.
I spent today in "group therapy", to which, again, I was the only person to show up. Not so groupy. I'm not allowed to talk about what goes on but another lady eventually showed. And talking to her, and her situation made me angry at the world. Never mind the fact we are all about to be blown up (one hour before the summit commences), it would appear I am doing a US Election special - ie staying up to watch this shit - because I CARE. I care that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. I care that someone makes sexist and misogynistic remarks at me in public. I care that I have to deal with my own personal physical pain, and absorb everyone else's. It's a thing with an empathic. You just take it on without meaning to. And I certainly care that a grown man in the street called me a "spaz" the other day. Jesus man. It's 2018. Get a better insult you tracksuit pant wearing ingrate.
All I'm saying is it's hard for someone in my position to catch a break. I feel like I try and try and try again, and sometimes someone throws you a bone and it still ends up in the bin. All I want is to be able to do what I know I'm good at, and talented at. Goddammit, Dulce worked in call centres. Snap, mate.
I hate playing the disabled/sick card but that is what is stopping everything, and it's not right. I'm fed up, and I don't want to take it anymore. Someone start paying me for this writing or - well, I'll probably keep doing it anyway.
I'm going to get up on stage and do comedy despite not being able to stand, get up the stairs to the gig room and being fucking shit arsed terrified. But you don't make a Jamie Oliver program without using more than 5 ingredients.*
Trevor, anytime you are ready, I am here mate. I think I would be an asset. And yes, this is begging. Sorry about that.
See you on the other side, peeps. I have a colander on my head. It's airier. And the wok is too heavy.
*gag specifically for my husband.
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