I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome about 9 months ago. Officially. Funnily enough, an ultrasound nurse told me this when I was 14, and yet my doctors at the time disregarded this and basically told me to come back when I wanted to have children. It all started when I was 12. I went through puberty even though I was told that my Crohns may interfere. I had my first period (bloody hell literally) and I remember being super excited (even though I was in stupid pain). I remember getting the obligatory joke(?) text from my friend saying ‘WOOHOO you’re officially a woman!’, and I remember being somewhat proud of the whole debacle. I wasn’t worried when I didn’t have one the next month, or the month after that, because it’s often stressed to you that you’re never regular at the beginning.
Two years later I admitted to my mum that I hadn’t had a period since. I asked if it was normal. She booked me an appointment at the GPs. We went together and explained what had happened and they originally told me that some people don’t start to late. I didn’t pique their interest until I told them I had started two years ago, and just never…carried on. Continue reading
I am trying to take care of myself, in the same way that I take care of others. I am trying to love myself, in the same way that I love others. I am trying to believe in, and be be proud of myself, in the same way that I believe in and am proud of others.
It is so easy for me to applaud another, or soothe another, or comfort another. It is so easy for me to look at another person and understand every reason why they are how they are. It is so easy for me to raise my hand to stem their worries, fears, and doubts.
But when I look at myself, I find it difficult. It can be so hard to function. Sometimes it’s cos I’m ill. Sometimes it’s cos I’m depressed. And sometimes I just really don’t have time to care for myself. I can be for other people what they cannot be for themselves, but I cannot be what I need. I spend my days caring and loving others, and yet, when I come home, I have none left for myself. Continue reading
Sometimes I’m like a bath that has been left just that little too long. Not hot enough to burn, not cold enough to not bother, just lukewarm enough to be slightly uncomfortable and confusing.
Do I stay in? Do I get out? Am I enjoying this? Am I not? Most the time you either accept this weird temperature, or you actually try to do something about it; whether that’s getting out, or turning on the hot water tap and waiting for the bath to warm up.
Well sometimes, I’m that lukewarm bath. Sometimes, I don’t feel anything at either end of the spectrum, I’m just…where I am. I’m not happy, proud, excited, joyous, content. I’m also not angry, sad, upset, or annoyed. I’m not really anything, I’m just sitting in a very weird in between. Continue reading
I’ve come to realise that underneath everything, I am a very angry and irritable person. I’m quick to fire up and very slow to burn out. I’m a seether, a grudger, a hater of all things. Would you have guessed?
One of my friends once told me that when I get angry she knows it’s real, she knows that something must have really pissed me off, because according to her, I don’t get angry. But I’ve mentioned it before that I would rather hold it inside me than let anything come out, and that I would rather suffer than anybody else. Unfortunately for me, I think that just makes me an even angrier person. It has no where to go, so it grows and shrinks, grows and shrinks, and then just fucks up everything. Continue reading
MUSINGS OF A CARER
There’s a client I’ve been seeing intermittently for the last 2 months. Ever since I met her, she’s been trying to hook me up with ‘the fish man’ who regularly visits, because, as I quote, ‘you have a lovely figure and bouncy hair, why wouldn’t he want to’. It doesn’t matter that he’s married with children and I have a partner, the only thing that has even slightly deterred her from trying to match-make is that fact that I hate fish. Apparently that’s the only thing that makes us incompatible.
MUSINGS OF A CARER
Today I had to google what a ‘Tall Boy’ was. No it is not a vivid sexual fantasy of a never married-little-old lady (and if that was the case, why on earth was she handing me 2 towels… *shiver*). Thanks to google, I discovered that a Tall Boy is in fact a chest of drawers. And so the generational knowledge gap between me and my clients once again becomes glaringly apparent.
Who really knows.
I’m not one of those people who likes conflict. I hate it. It drives me mad. It stresses me out. If anything, conflict is one of the biggest triggers to me tumbling into a downwards spiral. I’ve always been one of those people who would rather sit down, talk, and find a compromise, than get into a full blown argument with someone. To me, that’s always been the better option.
I’m not going to say it’s healthy. In the long run, it’s probably quite the opposite. I’d rather not show anyone just exactly how they’ve hurt me, or how angry I am, so it just ends up bottled. It grows and grows, and eventually explodes, or at least, implodes, into something not good at all. I’m an internal combustor, a nuclear bomb that only collapses inwards rather than shatters outwards. Continue reading