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… that I bake, therefore I am. One victoria sponge sandwiched and smothered with pastel yellow buttercream later, and I feel like myself again.
I am sick. But I am going to get better. I got a letter this morning from the NHS, offering me an appointment on July 5th – 6 weeks after this started for the fourth, and hopefully final, time. I can’t go to work, or shower with the door locked, or even really manage stairs alone anymore. I am exhausted both by doing nothing and by the absolute prospect of doing nothing.
It’s amazing how you can solve a problem by chucking money at it. In spite of my Guardian-reading, liberal, student self, I’m going private. I have an appointment for next Wednesday – almost a whole month earlier than I otherwise would have. An ugly necessity on the basis of what is now 10 days of sporadic confusion and disorientation. The doctor has told me not to drive (potential epilepsy could not conceivably make me worse at this: I nearly flipped a boat several years ago, thinking that spinning a wheel counted as steering), drink alcohol or take baths/swim. Consequently, all I want to do is get absolutely hammered and drive a car into a swimming pool. If I’d had to wait until July 5th to see someone, I probably would.
In spite of how utterly hopeless I feel, I am lucky. My friends, or at least the ones I’ve told, have been wonderful and supportive. I don’t just mean this in the ‘I have so many feelings, please be nice while I express them all’ way – I mean literally supportive. One of my symptoms is hurling myself about like a lunatic. Which looks pretty funny in the middle of Asda. I’m not much fun at the minute – typing this is exhausting me, and it’s hard to focus on the screen. Yet my boyfriend’s still on his way round to make fun of me, eat some of what is, according to my mother, a delicious cake, and help me tackle stairs.
There are good days and bad days. But even my bad days aren’t so bad, because I am not going through this alone.
