I’m no Superwoman

It’s been three years and three months. I look back, no, I am forced to look back by bloody Facebook, on the things I said three years ago.

It’s okay, it’s not bad, I can do this, I’m not going to let this beat me.

I can’t do this anymore.

I’ve said that so many times. It’s bloody hard waking up in pain day, after day, after day. It’s even harder trying to fall asleep in pain, night, after night, after night.

The pain is constant, it never leaves, it’s part of me now, something I just have to deal with.

Does that make me special, am I superwoman because I can cope with pain every day and still make a joke, say something positive, or even smile?

Hilarious

I laugh sometimes, especially at the Impractical Jokers (Comedy Central.) Yes, Sal, Murray, Quin and Joe have me in stitches, even though it’s not the kind of humour I usually enjoy. Sometimes it’s nice to have a little stupidity in your life. I’m going to see them in October, Live! I’m so excited.

It’s also a depressing tale. My daughter bought the tickets while I was really ill a while ago. She came up to my room and told me. I spent the rest of the evening (night, day, I don’t know, I was ill,) worrying about it. She’d booked front row tickets for us, spent a fortune.

I can’t sit in the front row, I’m disabled. I have to sit in one of the special places for wheelchairs. My daughter was annoyed, she insisted that I’d be able to walk in and sit at the front. I walk around the house after all. Even if I could I wouldn’t be safe in an emergency, I would be breaking violations. I’m not allowed to sit there.

It was then I realised that no-one, not even my family members understand.

I can’t do this Anymore

I am in pain, constantly. Every step I take hurts so bad I’m longing to be done with taking steps. I get up to put my phone on charge on the other side of the living room. Yes, I can do it, but no-one understands the effort and pain.

I can help my husband cook a meal in the kitchen, I have a stool, I have counters to lean on. Taking something to the sink or getting something out of the fridge is a lot of effort. At the end of cooking I can’t wait to sit down. I don’t enjoy my meal because I’m hurting.

This happens in front of my family on a daily basis, but they still don’t understand how I feel, how much it hurts.

I can walk from the living room to the kitchen and visa versa. I don’t want to do it twice though. I get up to answer the door when someone knocks. I’m exhausted by the time I get there, from the pain and the effort. I still do these things because if I don’t I’m giving up.

I could give up, boy, I so want to sometimes. I just don’t want to do this thing anymore, this life, this existence, any of it.

I want My Life Back

I want the old me back, I want to be able to run around after my kids, pop to the shops when I feel like it, walk up the garden, or around the park, drive a car, visit people who have doorsteps.

I want to go to the dentist and the GP on my own. I don’t want to go to the hospital any more.

I want to be able to visit my Mother’s grave, tend to it, clean away the dead flowers and polish up the headstone.

I want to be a Mother again, take my kids to school, go to parents evening, take them out, play with them.

I’m no Superwoman

I hate this, I hate the me I am. I’m no superwoman just because I post something positive on Facebook, or here on my blog.

I have always been a positive person and that’s not going to change. Because despite everything, if I don’t stay positive then what is there?

When I say I don’t want to do this anymore, it makes people angry. I have no right to give up, I have family, I have a home, I have a lot more than a lot of people. Hey, I might even have a future if I’m lucky.

And Cats, Cats are nice

So, I swallow up the bile, live with the pain, and just do it. I get up out of bed (sometimes I really don’t want to, the pain is so bad, but even though I’ve begged for help it’s not happened, so I just get on with it.)

And that’s it, that’s my life.

I’m no Superwoman, I’ve got no choice.

I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want to know how amazing I am, I don’t want people to know what I’m really thinking.

I didn’t chose this to happen, I’ve done everything I can to heal myself but nothing has worked.

And I don’t know if I can do it.

Oh no I’ve said too much,

I haven’t said enough

R.E.M Losing My Religion

I won’t give up, I can’t give up. I know what it’s like to lose a parent, it’s hard at any age and my youngest is only eight (the age I was when my Dad died.) I have to keep fighting. I have no choice. But wouldn’t it be so nice to be allowed to sleep ……

And Dream of Sleep

Little light shining
Little light will guide them to me 
My face is all lit up
My face is all lit up
If they find me racing white horses 
They’ll not take me for a buoy

Let me be weak, let me sleep and dream of sheep

Oh I’ll wake up to any sound of engines
Every gull a seeking craft
I can’t keep my eyes open 
Wish I had my radio 
I’d tune into some friendly voices Talking ’bout stupid things
I can’t be left to my imagination

Let me be weak, let me sleep and dream of sheep 
Ooh, their breath is warm
And they smell like sleep
And they say they take me home 
Like poppies, heavy with seed 
They take me deeper and deeper

Songwriter: Kate Bush