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| Virus on computer. Right before exams. GG. At least I'll be less distracted. Unless I'm at my dad's office, which I am at this moment. So what else is new? Not breathing thing is getting worse, it appears. More pins and needles in my head. Do not like. Doc says that I won't pass out or die because it's impossible for me to hold my breath for that long. That's a relief but he can tell me that when I'm dead. A half hour seizure is going to wipe me out in an exam. If I manage to start breathing again, I'll be barely able to open my eyes, let alone read the question, think and write. We'll see what happens. ~*~ There was a cockroach in the bathroom the other day. Freaked me out but I managed to not scream. About 3, 4cm long. I turned around and there it was, waving its antennae at me. We both froze as our eyes (do cockroaches have eyes?) then quick as a flash, it darted out of the bathroom, slipping beneath the door. I ran to open the door to follow it out but by then, it had already made its escape. I stood there for ten minutes, waiting for it to reappear. It never did. Why are cockroaches so scary? It's not like they have teeth (do they?) or are poisonous. Sure, they're disgusting, but surely they shouldn't be fear inducing. But they are. They scuttle around in our kitchens, contaminating our food - but even when they're in our garage we try to kill them. I shared this idea with my dad the next day. Dad: "You're absolutely right. Next time there's a cockroach, I'll get you deal with it." ~*~ I bummed around Circular Quay for about an hour yesterday. Walked up to the Opera House and just watched the gulls fly around over the harbour. It was blissful just standing there, not having to think, just floating and admiring the scene, drinking in the sights and being a spectator to tourists bustling about buying icecreams for their squealing children. There are these panels that we'd climb up and slide down on our school excursions to the Opera House during our recess and lunch breaks back in primary school. It was the best part of the trip - what six year old kid would care about the scenary? But when I looked at those panels yesterday, there were no clambering children enjoying themselves. Only a sign. "In the interests of safety, do not climb the angled panels." Just consider the experiences young children are missing out on today. =P ~*~ I love bus trips. Train trips are ok too, but bus trips are more peaceful for me. I whinge a lot about the two hours it takes me to just get to uni, but really, they're usually the best part of my day. When exams are over, I think I'll take a day out and just catch random buses by myself and zone out. I plug in my mp3 and just watch the trees fly by. I watch people on the bus and on the street. I think I've learned more from sitting on the bus than I have sitting in class. Of course, that could be due to the fact that during class I'm either falling asleep, bracing myself for a seizure, or faceplanting and having a seizure. I saw a young girl riding her pink (erg) bicycle along Epping Rd with her father by her side. She looked to be around 7. There wasn't anything really distinctive about her, but I pondered while watching her that if I saw her again in five years time, what she would be like. What would she encounter, long after I'd observed this snapshot of her life? And her father - what had he, and what will he experience, before and after this beautiful picture of him with his bike riding daughter? There was this middle aged Chinese lady talking to a much younger woman at the bus stop. The younger woman got on the bus and the older walked away after waving farewell. What struck me was her smile and her hair. Her hair was snow white. Not a single strand of grey or black. And yet her smile was infectious, genuine and sunny. What had she been through for her hair to be so white at her age, and how had she survived with her smile still intact? Of all the people I saw while on my bus trips, she is the one I am, quite frankly, most jealous of. If you live around the Hills area, especially around West Pennant Hills and Cherrybrook, you've probably seen a woman dressed all in black with a wide brimmed sunhat, backpack on her back, walking everywhere. One leg does not bend properly. Every day, she walks, for hours at a time. She's probably clocked up hundreds of kilometers, if not thousands. She is the epitome of determination and strength, struggling on with every step. She has a tonne of perseverance and my utmost respect. I've never spoken to her before as lazy me is always on the bus or in a car, but if I ever get the chance to talk to her, I won't talk. I'll be listening and learning. This last person I did not see while I was on the bus, but while I was walking to hospital from the train station. I had been having a pity party that day and had been considering throwing myself under a train in frustration when I saw a young man in a motorised wheelchair. He was severely disabled, his upper body hung on the armrest of the wheelchair. He went down the road and stopped suddenly, trying to open a door. His limbs flailed wildly. After a few minutes of struggle, another man opened the door from the inside and let him in. I am shamed by how ungrateful I am for what I do have. I am shamed that despite what I do have, I do not smile like the beaming woman I wrote of, or carry on with the determination of the lady dressed in black. I am shamed that I consider not my past blessings, not my current blessings or the future full of all sorts of possibilities both good and bad, but only in my current inconveniences - I see only today's snapshot. I am shamed that I am so short sighted, so self centred and so weak, in spite of all the blessings God has poured on me. | | |
| Since Monday, I have found that I actually stop breathing during my seizures. My throat will close up. It doesn't tend to last for very long and I do find that I can manage to inhale a gasp of breath or two at a time but since it's only just a recent development, I do not know whether this will change or not. This is also an explanation for why I sometimes cannot talk to you while I seize as there is no airflow to allow me to speak. As I'm not completely suicidal at this point in time, I ask that if you notice that I've passed out (which as of today has not happened yet) to consider calling an ambulance, especially since breathing is fairly important if you want to do things like, oh, I don't know, stay alive. Many thanks in advance.
Cheers. | | |
| Dear Security Guards,
First of all, I'd like to say you guys do a great job of keeping everyone feeling secure and turning up whenever you're called. I should know. You do turn up whenever you're called. However, when I say you keep everyone feeling secure, I mean, you keep everyone except me feeling secure. And when my seizures are aggravated by stress, let me tell you - you're just screwing me over harder than ever.
Now, I know you have to turn up whenever you're called. Fine, go ahead. But, this being the 8th or so time (I've lost count) that you guys have been called up to me on Mondays at 5, you should know better than to say "Let's call an ambulance for her." You're lucky I didn't swear at you guys. Then you have the nerve to complain to me that you get called up every week. If you weren't aware of this fact before, I'm not the one calling you up. I'm the one desperately trying to STOP people calling you up. That was exactly why you found me in the bathroom yesterday, because I was trying to avoid having to see your lovely faces. But alas, that didn't work. But when people insist on calling you guys, I really have no choice.
"Medication doesn't help?" How many times do I have to tell you guys? I tell you guys this every week. What do you want me to say? That medication does help but I can't be screwed to take it because I like having seizures? That I want this to keep happening? Sorry, can't tell you want you want to hear.
"We can't keep coming up here every week." Then don't.
"Every week, it's the same argument, do we call you an ambulance, do we not?" It's not an argument. I've shown you the letters from my doctors. They say don't. I've shown you the letter from the emergency department of the Prince of Wales hospital. It says don't. It's really not a question. You're just trying to make my life harder. And you're succeeding.
"But if you get hurt, it's on our heads." I've had seizures for quite a while now. Yes, I've hit my head. But guess what? When that happens, I DEAL WITH IT. Just yesterday, I had five seizures before the sixth one that you were called to. You weren't called to the other five. I did hit my head. You know what I did? I said "ow", rubbed my head, took some Panadol and shook some more. Does it hurt? Psh, yeah. Is it serious? No. What makes you think the sixth time is going to end up with me "lying on the floor with blood coming out of your head"?
"We have to respond every time we're called." Oh boo fucking hoo. Cry to your boss about it.
"We have to do our job." Then don't complain about it. You think you don't have a choice? I want to see you guys just as much as you want to see my fat ass.
"Every week, we come up here and it's you." I'm sorry, I'll put on a disguise next time. What do you want me to do? Drop out of uni? Because short of dropping out of uni, there isn't anything I can do. Mondays screw me over pretty badly and I try. Heck, I even try to skip a couple of lectures here and there but it doesn't help. I'm trying my best to get on with my life.
"Now, now, we're not having a go at you. We just want to resolve this." Are you a doctor? Then shut up because you CAN'T resolve this. Now, you have two choices. You can either refuse to respond to the call, but as you say you can't do that, your other choice is to come up here, watch me shake, wait with me till it passes, make sure I'm not concussed then go. It's a hell of a lot faster than if you come up here and talk shit at me. Because if you keep doing that, I'll keep shaking more. Then we'll just be wasting each other's time.
Love,
Mandy | | |
| It was one of her best ideas. One of her more unpleasant ideas, but quite effective all the same. Of course, no plan is flawless, and there were plenty of holes in this strategy. But as it was, it gave her what she needed.
She staggered into the bathroom clutching her bag of cushions. This was the hardest step, making it to the bathroom in time without raising suspicion or concern. Many times she failed to accomplish this, causing the whole plan to collapse into itself. Today however, she made it.
She clutched the tiled wall gasping for breath, trying to calm herself from the panicked and clumsy dash. Then she slid down the face of the wall, sitting so she leant against it and firmly wedged the cushions behind her head. Her eyes closed as she felt her back arch and she stifled a shout. The first bout was over. She pulled herself up, gave herself a few moments to regain her balance then, quick as she could, locked herself into a cubicle.
The idea of purposefully choosing to have seizures in a bathroom does appear to be the idea of one disturbed person. While she couldn't control when, she could sometimes to a certain extent choose the where - yet why she chose the bathroom, few could understand. With a toilet bowl and a bin for sanitary napkins to complete the scenic view, their confusion was understandable. She sat so that she was half lying, half sitting, into the corner of the cubicle, again with the cushions behind her head. This reduced the chance of her slipping and hitting her head on the tiled floor. Then she braced her left foot against the toilet bowl and her right against the tiled wall. Now, she was ready for everything her body threw at her.
Her eyes blinked rapidly, her jaw clenched and her right foot slipped from its position. She cried out as her elbow hit the wall behind her once, twice, thrice, her back arched, her eyes stayed shut and her head jerked backwards. The cushions did their job but her neck would be sore. Then everything was still. Someone opened the door and she silently panicked. She pulled her jacket off and stuffed the sleeve into her mouth. The other girl went into a cubicle. She repositioned herself as before in the few seconds of respite before the next wave hit. She fought to keep her eyes open but could only manage for a few seconds at a time. This time her jaw shook and her teeth clattered.
When that wave was over, she listened carefully. The other girl grunted and there was the soft sound of something solid hitting the water below. She smirked and repositioned herself.
It went on for a while, shaking, a few seconds of regrouping and bracing then another wave, even long after the girl had washed her hands and left. Still, she had not been discovered. Finally, her body stilled.
She never knew when it was over. She still had the threatening feeling in her leg, haunting her, mocking her, scaring her. She stayed where she was, pulled the jacket from her mouth and kept her face carefully blank, trying to maintain control. Then she crumbled. Her lower lip quivered, her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling, pleading for it to end. She hugged herself, gently rocked and whispered "I'm so scared. I'm really scared. Will I ever get better?"
The bathroom filled with her sobs. She wailed, she keened, she cried out incoherently. Her confusion and her pain echoed around the walls, free for anyone to hear but no one was around. Six weeks of grief translated into six minutes of tears. Her tears ran down her shirt. Her face swelled up and turned red. An animalistic howl erupted from her throat.
As quickly as it started, it ended. It was time to try to go back to class. She'd had her break. She didn't let herself consider the possibility that the seizures weren't over. The mirror showed her the result of her outburst. Cold tap water did nothing to ease the ugly sight, but there was nothing to be done.
At the door she turned back and surveyed her safe haven. Disgusting though it was, it had protected her from many embarassing moments and from many painful concussions. It had given her a place to cry out her fears and a place to strengthen her resolve. A wry smile crossed her face as she gave a mirthless chuckle. Then she sighed and closed the door behind her. | | |
| I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. You can't even do the smallest things without spazzing out, losing the plot and curling up into a ball. So much for being a strong, mature, independent adult. Right now, all I can ask is "On what planet are you strong, mature, independent OR an adult?"
Because, guess what? You got nothing. You're not even close. You're just a scared little wimp, aren't you? You know you are.
Suck it up you useless brat and quit being the psycho bitch you've become.
*~*~*~*~*
I can be quite hurtful to myself when I choose to be. I wrote that this afternoon. Two hours later the doc was trying to convince me to be nice to myself. I didn't show him this. No idea what he'd say if he saw this.
Resilient, he said I was. He said I was a perfectionist and hence far too harsh on myself. Resilient? I don't know. Sometimes I can be. But there are times I'll just fall to pieces. Perfectionist? No. Too harsh on myself? Again, I don't know. Don't we need to be harsh on ourselves to be able to discipline ourselves, to improve ourselves, to be better and stronger people?
Skipping class was a good thing to do apparently. I don't know, I still do feel like I just took the easy way out. No, I can't get over it.
So anyway, I'm feeling calmer than I have been all week. Headache's still there, but that's probably because I am still stressed, just not quite as stressed as I have been. I don't feel like I ought to jump in front of a bus or die in a fire. Instead, I feel like I should dig a hole, crawl in it and die. Kidding.
Baby steps, right? =) | | |
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