Where Do We Go From Here?

I can only write in coffeeshops now – at least, when I’m not in hospital. So, here I am in Laynes Espresso, typing on my Bluetooth keyboard getting a blog post ready for you to read for what feels like the first time ever. I have this A3 sheet of paper in front of me that’s divided into four quadrants. It’s called an Eisenhower Matrix. My friend Sam convinced me to do one. I’ll be sticking it on my wall when I get home. I’ve been afraid to call Sam my friend. I’ve been afraid to call anyone my friend lately. I don’t feel worthy enough to have proper friends. My life is so abnormal, I’ve just accepted people flit in and out with no warning, so why even bother getting attached and calling them friends? Take my writer’s group. I’ve been seeing some of these people for over a year, but I daren’t consider any of them my friends. This is sounding a bit depressing, but I’m telling myself I’m not depressed. I don’t cry, I don’t feel sad. I’ve had a great eight months (why, what happened in August that wasn’t great? I liked a boy that didn’t like me back). It culminated in my first admission into hospital since 2011-ish. I had a temperature and constant, excruciating pain in my Spleen. Don’t know where your Spleen is? Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. Mine’s still there, still enlarged, but feeling relatively back to normal. I’ve little to no explaination as to what happened, whether or not it was linked to my illness (Porphyria, if for some reason you didn’t already know). The most we (parents, doctors) can assess is that it was a Splenetic Infarction. Insert boring medical definition here! I only ended up having treatment for four days, and was discharged last Wednesday. Since then, I’ve sort of felt lost, when left back in the capable hands of myself. What do I do now? Summer is coming up – a potentially difficult period. And I’m turning thirty. It feels disgusting just saying it. Thur-tee. #DirtyThirties. The past ten years, I’ve been keeping a private diary that used to hold my inner-most protected thoughts and feelings. Now I’m looking back on it, thinking how useless it was. I should have been sharing it all with you – which is what I’m going to try and do, starting now. 

About tomsbrain

The central hub of all things Thomas McNab - a 33-year-old Yorkshire-born writer and filmmaker, living with a disability, and medicating himself with obscene amounts of films, television, and amateur wordplay. Find out more at http://tomsbrain.2ya.com.

Posted on May 5, 2016, in Hospital, Posts. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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