Relateable

I travelled 18 hours back and forth. With holdall bags larger than me on overflowing trains, sleeping and awaking from startling nightmares whilst aboard. I travelled a lot whilst in Wales. Yet none of it was beneficial.

Picture it. I was 18, confused, trying my best, doing what I was supposed to do.

This was the second coming of my internal struggles.

I have a vivid memory of when I was 11 years old, making myself sick after eating. Staying up after midnight and watching shows like The Villa?! I watched these young, clueless attractive people live out misogynistic nonsense and instead of questioning it I did 200 sit ups wishing I was attractive.

I remember my neighbour who was a few years younger commenting that my body looked weird because I had lumps on my nipples as my breasts were forming and that I stood oddly like my hips were too far forward.

I can remember a family friend making a comment along the lines of, ‘she’s grown into her looks’ when I was 15 years old. I have always had an intrinsic need to be liked and desired as I was under the impression that was my worth.

It wasn’t until I was almost 19 when I had my first near death crisis.

I can vaguely remember friends in my student halls of residence, using pint glasses to put my black vomit from the tiny sink in my room to the shared toilet. There were also a lot of things and actions I don't remember but my flatmates thought it was funny to spell out something along the lines of “Linny and x are lesbains, humping on the kitchen floor.”

I remember being told no one wanted to socialise with me and x cause we always fought (like a married couple).

It could be argued I wasn’t ready to be away from home but it could also be argued that it is what started the slow and painful process to where I am now.

I know what you’re thinking. Where were your parents? They were being spectacular. Working for the then semi functional NHS, saving lives, making a difference whilst also raising three girls. I could make assumptions about them, I could chastise them for decisions but I won’t because I know in my soul they did their best and luckily they’re still around and continue to support me albeit at an arm's length.

I would talk about my sisters more but I feel I have already burdened them with so much. They didn't’ ask to have a Bi-Polar, Borderline Personality Disorder, queer mess as a sister. What I will say however, is I truly regret the trauma I have probably caused them.

I did therapy. I continue to take medication. I am what is considered “stable”.

The fear though.

It never leaves. It is always there. The only time I’m not aware of it is when I am manic and being vivacious and what some consider ‘silly’.

#Bipolar #BPD #Depression #Anxiety #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #Old #help #Broken #Recovery #Masking #Relateable

I feel like my mitochondria are suffocating.
I feel like my cells lack oxygen.
Laying down, I feel like I’m being crushed by bricks.
My heart is beating too fast, too hard. I feel it through the thin wall in my chest and it throbs.
My circulation feels cut off when I lay on my arm.
My muscles ache. They twitch and spaz.
This fatigue is incomprehensible.
When I lay on my side, one knee atop another, the contact of bone is uncomfortable.
I want to scream, but lack the energy to do so.
I’m hungry, but too weak to get up to get food.
I’m exhausted, but can’t sleep.
I’m in pain, but meds require too much from me to get up and take them.
I’m bored, but too brain-fogged to do anything productive.
My arms won’t hold a book up.
My fingers are weary from typing.
My eyes are too sore to look at a screen.
I’m too sick to work but apparently not sick enough to get disability.
I only make it into the doctors office on good days.
I want to enjoy my good days; pretend I’m not sick; then to everyone else it looks like I really am not sick.
I’m in too much pain to go on, but not severe enough to get help from the ER.
My doctors don’t have answers.
Other practitioners treat me like a guinea pig.
Everyone has their idea of what will “fix” or “cure” me, or what I’m doing wrong.
It hurts to lie down. It hurts to stand. To sit, to walk.
I move from my bed because I hurt, then back to my bed because I hurt; all the meanwhile using energy I don’t have.
My spoons have run short. I think I’m on next year’s supply.
I wish I had a doctor who knew more about what’s going on with me than I do.

#LymeDisease #ChronicFatigue #ChronicIllness #ChronicPain #Muscle #Joint #ahces #Pain #Fatigue #exhaustion #nausea #Twitching #Hunger #tired #Spoonie #help #Relateable #mitochondria #circulation #Tachycardia