Let my start off by apologizing in advance for a long overdue post that will without a doubt turn into nothing more than a long text filled with Why me’s and other self-pitying ways of stating that the Universe has it in for me.
The truth is I don’t know how to not turn this into a bitter rant. And honestly, I think I’m entitled one. Because as far as I’m concerned… Bad things should happen to other people who are better equipped to deal with it and not so important to the survival of mankind. you know… Everyone else.
But the Universe doesn’t give a fuck.
It woke up one day, and without any regards for my plan to become to most awesomest evil overlord, it just said: Hey… how do you like getting out of bed refreshed and using your brain. Ha. You do? Well, Fuck you, Janneke Rood. Those days are over.
(Disclaimer: No such words were ever actually heard coming out of the Universe’s mouth… But this is mostly due to the fact that the Universe speaks very slowly. It takes about a dozen years for the universe to form a sentence (not to mention how it struggles with certain vowels).)
And there’s a lot you can say about the Universe, but it’s a deterministic Motherfucker.
Three months ago I though I really need a vacation, get some rest. By now I just think I need a lobotomy. And if it really would help, I’d take it. Either one, really. I’d prefer the vacation, because splicing my brain in half doesn’t sound all that appealing. And it probably won’t help me feel any bit better.
But hell, if it means that I can get out of bed every day, not feeling like a garbage truck backed up over me. Why the hell not?
So, what’s wrong with me you must be asking by now?
(In which case… it means you’re still reading this… And you’re probably my mom)
Apart from the obvious.
Well, if I hadn’t lost my sense of humour to it… I’d probably find it very ironic that someone as self-obsessed as me has an illness known as ME.
But I haven’t been funny for three months. Because being funny requires some mental processing power I just do not have at the moment. My GP, who kindly explained to me what Chronic Fatigue Syndrome -formerly known as M.E.- is, compared it to having a broken battery in an iPhone. It won’t charge as quickly anymore, however it drains so much quicker. So, in essence I have this body that looks really cool and well designed, but there’s nothing I can do with it. All these apps, but no power to run them on.
And that wouldn’t be so bad if my brain still worked. I might be stuck inside, incapable of exerting myself… But I could write. I could read. I could catch up on watching television. But I can’t. Because my brain is powered by my broken battery.
If I do too much I get horrible headaches. I get excruciating pains in my hands and legs. I get dizzy and nauseous.
So, I just sit inside most days. I don’t even know what I do. I’m bored. My body hurts from doing nothing. I struggle to concentrate on anything. The only reason I’m writing here today is because I consumed a liter of coke and some aspirin, which kickstarted my brain. I’m sure I’ll pay the price tomorrow -or later this evening. But right now I don’t care. It’s nice to not feel like my brain has been tasered into dumb submission. It’s nice to be able to lift my arms without feeling like a bag of bricks have been taped to them.
It’s fucking nice to not feel so stupid and angry and unfunny. It’s nice to not feel like I have a terrible hang-over (because that’s the best way to describe it) without having had the privilege of at least having a great night.
At the end of this week, I’ll be flying home. I can’t be in the city right now, because the traffic makes me dizzy and disoriented, and as horribly depressed, angry and negative I get at times. I don’t really fancy dying after getting hit by a truck, bus or any other vehicle.
Besides, as nice as London is.. there is nothing here for me right now. Living abroad is really nice, but you do miss the support system you have at home. The days I can’t get out of bed, there is no one here to make me lunch, force me to leave the quiet safety of my room, or -more importantly- tell me to suck it up.
That’s what my friends are for.
You know, because without them, I’m all alone feeling sorry for myself. I’ll keep complaining and pitying myself. I’ll write angry blog posts about how much my life sucks right now. And everyone here will tell me how sorry they are for me. Because they all buy into this fantasy that you should be nice to sick people, because English people are genuinely nice and decent people.
But they shouldn’t.
They should make fun of me. Because you have to make fun of it.
Because it is too stupid for words. I’m 25 and some days I can’t climb the stairs.
And if you can’t laugh at that, all you can do is cry.
And that’s just silly.
So, just for my friends reading this. I trust you to be the assholes I know you all are. The 20th my plane will land in Amsterdam.
Feel free to call me. Laugh. And Hang up.
I really need that right now. :)