I have some bits of news. Some very exciting, some surprising.
I have to tell some other people before I can tell you lot, so early bext week I shall reveal all. 
)
Noows
1 Comment »
We’re also eating Lindt bunnies which makes life better
I am afternoon-napping in MindReader’s bed. He has managed to become more immobile than me by having surgery (trust me: you don’t want to know) so I have journeyed over to sleep and feel crap in his house for a few days.
My eyes open as he comes into the room, the cool air brushing away the cobwebs of sleep.
“How you doing?” he says.
“Crap,” I say, my eyes filling with tears, because this is how much fun I am.
He climbs onto the bed and worldlessly folds me into his arms. I burrow my nose into his neck.
“Will you read to me?” I say, an old childhood comfort.
“Of course,” he says, opening my novel and beginning to read. I feel enveloped by both his arms and his words; it is as if he is in my head.
When he is finished I am almost asleep again.
“What will I do for a whole year?” I say.
“Write that novel you’re always thinking about,” he says simply.
And suddenly everything is better.
Less clouds
“Hey!” I say to MadFather as he turns my film off.
“This is important,” he says, fiddling about with the remote controls while I huff.
“That,” he says, turning Sky Sports on, “is Mario Ancic.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, watching the two tennis players.
“He had glandular fever and was in bed for 6 months,” he says.
I stare at the screen in awe. He effortlessly runs across the court. All 6 foot 5 of him.
There is a close up suddenly of his face. His dark eyes look back into mine.
“It’s funny,” I say slowly, “to think he’s been to some of the darkest places I’ve been.”
“And look where he is now,” MadFather says, a hand on my shoulder.
“Mario Ancic,” the commentator says. “Almost back to full fitness. He’s also resumed studying his law degree.”
I smile.
Black clouds but enough nice metaphors to know that I am writing it out of my system rather than giving up
I don’t usually come here when I am so sad I can’t think straight, a ball of iron in my stomach, but I find myself here with the last reserves of energy I can find.
I feel a fool to think I could go back to college and maybe the actual act of vocalising that has set me back weeks. Or maybe it was sitting in the hair dressers. I don’t know, and I will go crazy if I continue to try and find out what made my body slam its brakes on with such force.
I am being horrible to those around me, because I don’t know where this virus is to shout at it. I wish this didn’t mean I shout at the ones I love but it doesn’t seem to be something I can control.
People refer to getting over illnesses as “fighting” them. I wish it was. I feel it is attacking me and my body is rolling over in defeat. If I knew how to fight it I would. I want to do nothing more than defend my body, its newly painted nails and dyed hair and burning soul ready to rejoin life. Lying on the sofa for the 5th month in a row does not feel like fighting. It feels like giving up.
I want to disappear into the wings of life for a few months and return like the old Billygean that people knew. The one who could go jogging, collapsing with laughter at how unfit she was, or stay out all night, swatting away mosquitos and drinking wine and snogging MindReader. Whose only frustrations were not being able to pirouette perfectly and not being able to remember the precise provisions of the Civil Procedure Rules. This feels like decades ago, something I remember fondly. Imagine: remembering life fondly. For feeling rain tangle in my hair, cut grass spike sharply in my back, even for overhearing things said about me in the dimness of a pub, for having ex-boyfriends stare at me accusingly across a room. That implies I do not have a life now which is closer to the truth than I ever imagined it would be. Because these things did not happen to me, you see.
A family friend on Sunday night said I needed some fresh air and why didn’t I go on a walk. I gripped the duvet so hard I almost drew blood from my own palm. If you know me at all you know that I would not go down without a fight. I would not walk out of exam rooms. And I would try fresh air before I tried lying down for months on end.
I want to tell the virus it has won. To leave me alone. I am tired of charting my progress only to see it fall away like torn pieces of paper. I am tired of crying tears over this thing. What is making me depressed, though, is not the virus. I think it is the hope that I will one day get over it.
Yet male and female connectors exist
“And the V&A was closed, so I had a whole 9 hours to kill in London,” OldestFriend says.
“God,” I say, sipping my take out Starbucks that she brought me. “What did you do?”
“Sat in Costa for an hour and rang my Mum,” she says. “Who rambled about their farm. She told me about how they had to tie elastic bands around all of the lambs’ testicles.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “What? Why?”
“Who knows?” OldestFriend shrugs. “To stop them mating?”
“WHAT?”
“With the girl lambs?”
“Oh!” I say. “I thought you said lamps.”
“The world hasn’t changed THAT much while you’ve been in bed, Billygean.”
Because I have got so much better in the last 7 days, and I want my skin to no longer look sallow!
“Now,” Hairdresser says. “What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say, and for the first time at this moment at the hairdresser’s I am being completely honest. “I needed a change after lying in bed for months.”
“I bet,” she says. “You need to use this once a week,” she says, pushing a pot into my hands. “It’s formulated to keep your hair conditioned.”
She pauses.
“It’s especially for blondes,” she says.
I smile.
Banter
“Hello you,” MindReader says into the phone.
“Hello,” I say, pulling the duvet further up my body.
“I just realised I packed your pants and brought them home with me,” MindReader says laughing. “This is in no way intentional.”
I laugh. “That’s kind of creepy. Which ones?”
“The yellow silky ones,” he says.
“Oh well,” I say. “How was football?”
“It was called off actually but we still had a kick about. I’m knackered though so just had a really nice long shower.”
“Ooh what did you use?” I say, because I am all about the bathing products.
“Um, Lavender,” he says, with enough decency to sound embarrassed.
He pauses.
“I’ll just put on your underwear now.”
“My size 6 pants would not fit your ass,” I say, smirking.
“How do you know, I might have worn them to football.”
“Was that why the game was called off?”
Still an overachiever at heart
Hi.
I am still here, sorry.
Well, my birthday was quite bleak, in that me and my double chin made entirely of glands could not even lift our head off the sofa. So, I did do some crying on MindReader, who did lots of rubbing my back and making me laugh.
The days since that have been much better. I have even been able to sit up some days. I know this is RIDICULOUS and sometimes I can’t quite believe what I now class as achievements but if I can achieve at something I bloody well will!
College starts in 7 days but luckily there’s only a week and then two weeks off for Easter. I hope that in four weeks I’ll be well enough to resume my life but you never can rely on this knowing my body.
MindReader is coming over tomorrow, for one night, and later in the week I have my rescheduled (*blushes*) ultrasound, and then next week if I am well enough to get in a car I am going to babysit my sister’s cats and have some time alone to generally ruminate and hopefully use all her bath stuff.
Normal posting resumes now.
