Red
Warlock
- Apr 10, 2019
- 744
In a bad way again due to this stupid incurable disease and its as of yet unidentified comorbidities; whinge, whine, go ahead n skip if you can't hack the woe!
Spent the last two days in bed, sweating, shivering, writhing in pain as another flare holds me in its red hot grip; sleep reserves depleted, now completely conscious to experience the discomfort in all its glory. No position is comfortable, unable to even find a tolerable temperature; the now familiar, but no less terrifying, red-hot razor wire jolts running through pelvis and legs; sharp jabs like javelins hitting chest, spine and joints in the world's most sadistic game of "bop-it". How much longer must this go on?
Researching endometriosis and adenomyosis online just makes it all the more hopeless; no sure-fire cure, no way to make it stop, half my symptoms can't possibly be due to these diseases anyhow. Many treatments tried and failed - even ripping everything out might not stop it and if it did, it's likely to be the start of a whole new host of problems as the body kicks in to sudden, forced menopause.
Thinking it all moot anyway, as all investigations and treatments are currently on hold due to covid, with no clue as to when proper medical attention will be attainable again barring an indisputable, immedmedical emergency.
Wishing not to be in limbo - either alive and kicking or dead dead dead, not this crappy purgatory filled with all this endless pain and guilt. I hate it so much, long for the days when I was useful and active and able to do so much more than this.
Were it not for my son and fiancé, I wouldn't be here. Love is such a double edged sword; it is what brings me light and joy and reason for being. Yet it is also the thing that tethers me here to this crumbling shell of a body, forcing me to endure such persistent physical torture.
Trying to be grateful for the few good cards I am still desperately clinging to. I'd need a complete re-deal to get a significantly good hand to anyone else but all I want is that one card, the "good physical health" card and I'd be happy.
I've seen so many different doctors over this last half-decade that there should be no good reason that I remain largely undiagnosed and untreated. Consultants, surgeons, you name it; I've had blood tests, scans, surgeries; spent thousands of pounds on private medical treatment as well as enduring NHS indifference and incompetence. Somewhere amongst all these places lies the "good health" card I'm searching for; I'm convinced that many, should they just put in an ounce of effort and shift a card aside, have it among the ones in their hands, but you know what they invariably end up saying instead?
"Go fish."
(Go be somebody else's problem)
(Go fuck yourself)
I was never good at card games.
Spent the last two days in bed, sweating, shivering, writhing in pain as another flare holds me in its red hot grip; sleep reserves depleted, now completely conscious to experience the discomfort in all its glory. No position is comfortable, unable to even find a tolerable temperature; the now familiar, but no less terrifying, red-hot razor wire jolts running through pelvis and legs; sharp jabs like javelins hitting chest, spine and joints in the world's most sadistic game of "bop-it". How much longer must this go on?
Researching endometriosis and adenomyosis online just makes it all the more hopeless; no sure-fire cure, no way to make it stop, half my symptoms can't possibly be due to these diseases anyhow. Many treatments tried and failed - even ripping everything out might not stop it and if it did, it's likely to be the start of a whole new host of problems as the body kicks in to sudden, forced menopause.
Thinking it all moot anyway, as all investigations and treatments are currently on hold due to covid, with no clue as to when proper medical attention will be attainable again barring an indisputable, immedmedical emergency.
Wishing not to be in limbo - either alive and kicking or dead dead dead, not this crappy purgatory filled with all this endless pain and guilt. I hate it so much, long for the days when I was useful and active and able to do so much more than this.
Were it not for my son and fiancé, I wouldn't be here. Love is such a double edged sword; it is what brings me light and joy and reason for being. Yet it is also the thing that tethers me here to this crumbling shell of a body, forcing me to endure such persistent physical torture.
Trying to be grateful for the few good cards I am still desperately clinging to. I'd need a complete re-deal to get a significantly good hand to anyone else but all I want is that one card, the "good physical health" card and I'd be happy.
I've seen so many different doctors over this last half-decade that there should be no good reason that I remain largely undiagnosed and untreated. Consultants, surgeons, you name it; I've had blood tests, scans, surgeries; spent thousands of pounds on private medical treatment as well as enduring NHS indifference and incompetence. Somewhere amongst all these places lies the "good health" card I'm searching for; I'm convinced that many, should they just put in an ounce of effort and shift a card aside, have it among the ones in their hands, but you know what they invariably end up saying instead?
"Go fish."
(Go be somebody else's problem)
(Go fuck yourself)
I was never good at card games.