Thursday 25 August 2011

Angry Bird.

What kind of person wants to say the truest of harsh facts to their most loved people, with such venom and spite as to shock and upset and crush their very heart? Who would want to do that?

I would.

It's terrible. It's foul, and cruel, and nasty, and it's how my mind thinks when the anger rises to such levels that I fear hideous bile will force its way from my enraged soul to antagonise the one I love the most in all the world. I can't explain it. I can't explain why it happens. I don't say the things I "want" to, because my Mum is my best friend, my carer, the one who knows me so well it almost scares me. She's my Mum. She's amazing. She's brilliant and supportive and kind and generous and so much more. She's had cancer and still suffers its effects, and she STILL does so much for other people, and is still expected by some other people to do too much, but they sometimes don't realise it's too much, because she's the one who does the charity stuff, so, of course she'll do it.

Being trapped in one's home because of a relentlessly painful health condition and a mental illness which manifests itself with dark days of apparently never-ending tears and pointless panic about who knows what tends to make one slightly narked, to say the least. Depression bleeds craftily through my clumsily-built wall of denial and fear. My subconscious absorbs it without contention. My nerves gradually become more agitated, my sleep interrupted by insomnia, and my appetite impaired. I don't care for Art, or writing, or music, birds, animals, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, all of it - I don't care. It's... pointless.

In my mind, when I'm feeling thoroughly pissed off, everyone is too loud and too fucking stupid to understand that I'm TRYING to DO SOMETHING HERE.
Why won't they see it?
What the HELL is wrong with them?
What a STUPID question to ask me.
I DON'T CARE what you're doing.
I don't understand what you're TRYING TO SAY TO ME.
Just get out of my face. OUT.

If I go upstairs to my bedroom, to be on my own, it means I don't want company. I don't want to be around you. I don't want to be around anyone. I don't want to talk, because if I do, and tell you why I'm feeling like this, after you asked so nicely, I'll fucking tell you. You are DOING MY HEAD IN. The truth? You want me to tell you the truth? I want to take two of my very strong painkillers, go to sleep and forget that I feel so utterly shit and worthless and angry and helpless and useless and trapped and pained. I want this to stop, all of it. I want a better life, one that I can't have, with controllable pain, better treatment, a mind that doesn't insist on being shit whenever it fucking likes.

I can't drive a car to wherever to escape, I can't go for a walk lest I become unable to get back, I can't LEAVE this prison. I'm not a victim, even if it reads that way. I don't see myself as one. I don't think I behave as one. I can not stop feeling "low". It's not a passing "meh" - it won't lift once this has all blown over, the endometriosis and the associated pain won't stop and the disease itself won't be cured, the fatigue won't decrease, and the worry of it all encompassing my every waking second will not magically end. It's an unsolvable problem. These are unwinnable fights, and I don't know how I can keep on trying to "get better". What if I can never be better than I am now? What if this is it? Where is my love, my passion, my romance, my enthusiasm, my desire for all that makes me who I am? IS THIS IT?

Sometimes, it's time. It's just time that is needed to "heal" the current messy wounds of my own mind; other times, it's part of the joyous lady hormones. Currently, I've a suspicion it's a mix of both. I'm worried about periods returning, now I'm nearing the end of my second six-month course of decapeptyl injections. I fear the pain, the codeine increase, the days of fright, wondering what the FUCK is going on in my pelvis.

I can't stop my depression. I can't stop my endometriosis. There are medications to ease and ameliorate both, but nothing will stop either from happening, at least not now, nor in the very near future.

And so, I go to sleep.

And I wake the morning after the day of hell. The anger, the fire in my soul has gone, and I feel calm. I feel relaxed, and at peace, and I think of my life, "It could be worse. I have a family, made of love and brilliance, and friends who know", and I'm OK again. But it carries on, the circle of despair at my own self with good intentions and not enough strength to do what I have to, or what I want to.

And now, I will go to sleep, so tired from the numerous medications, the returning and ever-present pains, the depression. And the anger will be gone. Again. For a while. Until the next time. Still... could be worse.

1 comment:

  1. I love & share my life with someone who has very similar issues (which is such a crappy little word for things that are much more painful and all-affecting) and I think that in this piece you've painted a brilliant, honest & gut-wrenching pen-picture of what life can be like (sometimes)

    Truly touched

    Chin up



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