Billygean.co.uk

“I got my blood test results,” I say to MindReader, whose shoulder I am cuddled into as we watch University Challenge.

He turns to look at me. “Oh?”

“Yes. I don’t have diabetes.”

He manages to convey both disappointment on my behalf and relief all in one facial expression. He pats my knee with a freckly hand.

“But I do have high cholesterol. It’s official.”

He frowns. “It’s very strange.”

I shrug. “Not really. When I was at ballet school I ate SO much crap. Like 5 chocolate bars a day.”

“But still, you’re 24!”

I nod. “I know… how embarrassing!”

MindReader looks a bit scared and heads into the kitchen to cook me something healthy. I follow.

“So where did you go today?” he says, chopping a pepper and placing an onion in front of me. “Diced please,” he says.

I look at him.

“Very small,” he says, miming chopping.

“Ah,” I say. “We went to the bank, and had a tiny walk around the castle grounds. And guess what?”

“What?” MindReader says, doing something with a clove of garlic.

“I realised that the castle’s in the castle grounds!”

“What?”

“I just heard it as all one word – castlegrounds – this place in Tamworth, but I realised that it’s the castle – grounds!”

“How did this happen to you?” MindReader says with a broad smile. “How did you end up like this?”

“I have NO idea.”

“Sounds like you were locked in a room and fed goosefat for 20 years.”

“MindReader,” I say.

He places a drink down next to me and stands above me, looking nervous.

“Yes?”

“I have a proposition for Sunday.”

“Sunday?”

“Yes. Are you busy?”

“Erm… depends what it is,” he says laughing.

“Well. You know how we went strawberry picking?”

“Yes…”

“Well. You can go PUMPKIN PICKING!”

MindReader bursts out laughing. “What! Why do you want to do that?”

“Fields and fields of pumpkins! It’s so autumnal!”

“But… Billygean, we only need one. We’d just go and get it and then leave?”

“Exactly.”

I suppose it was a few things really. Seeing you so bored on Sunday, staring out at the rain and only venturing as far as the garden to hit a few golf balls. It was like watching a miserable lion in a zoo, pacing up and down the length of his cage.

It was talking to a blog reader, who, in response to me saying how the CFS affected you, too, said ‘what, so MindReader doesn’t really go out without you?’ I could only muse and think, but for football and work and the occasional work thing, um no, not really.

I was plaiting my hair after my bath this evening when you were at the football that I started musing. I mean, now I’m working from home I don’t just watch television and more television in the evenings. Tonight I finished at 6, watched some tv, had a bath, read Heat! magazine. It was good. I think I only remembered the really dark days from last time and now I’m realising that this time – however similar the symptoms – is not that bad. I always thought I didn’t make much emotional progress last time I was ill; more that I ceased being ill and the problems disappeared, but perhaps I was wrong.

I don’t want you to live like me. I don’t want you to live like you have CFS. I don’t want you to come back from watching the football in the pub and creep in through the door, not knowing what mood will greet you.

I have been thinking that while I’m ill, having you around would make things easier. And it does. But I realised today that actually, nothing makes any sense when I’m ill and is never going to. I see what you mean now about me taking things out on you. I didn’t think I was, because I didn’t think “I hate my life, I will shout at MindReader,” but I see now: because of the illness I thought I wanted you to do less stuff. But I don’t. Because it makes me feel sorry for you. And because it doesn’t actually make me feel any better.

That, unfortunately, is up to time, though you do help more than you will ever know. I feel like I was only half living until I met you, even though some would say I am only half living now and was living fully before glandular fever, and before you.

So please go out and have double the amounts of fun, until I can join you very soon.

Love,

Billygean

I have come off the Pill.

The Pill and I have been friends since 2003. Apart from the odd slip up, it has been my faithful friend who means horrible condoms aren’t necessary.

(Hi, Dad!)

Apparently in some small circumstances the pill can make CFS worse. So. I have to try.

Except. It’s making me crazy.

I just cried because I felt sorry for some wilting flowers!

“Hello Billygean!” Says BathShopFriend.

Since The Sacking and my now lack of discount BathShopFriend agreed to meet me on a street in Birmingham. It’s all a bit dodgy actually.

Her boyfriend hovers next to her.

It is dusky in Birmingham and people in suits rush past us. The sky is blue at the top, pink at the edges. Lights are coming on in the offices. I take a deep breath and momentarily enjoy being outside, even if MadFather is waiting in the car right next to me.

She hands me the package. It’s rather heavy. “This sugar scrub is in the shape of a mouse!” she says, and we squeal delightedly a little while her boyfriend looks rather uncomfortable.

“So I’ll see you soon?” she says.

“Sure,” I say.

“Keep in touch!”

“I’m sure you’ll read about me…” I say with a smirk.

She taps her boyfriend’s arm. “She’s the blog we read!”

“Ohhh,” he says, smiling broadly. “Her!”

They both look at me.

I panic.

I have a popular blog! I must be witty in person! Say something funny! I tilt my head to the side.

“Um, I’m a bit scared,” I say.

Charismatic, Billygean, very charismatic.

I walk into WhiteLegging’s office.

A woman sits in the chair. Wearing a very normal outfit.

“Oh,” I say.

“WhiteLeggings is off sick,” she says, with a brief smile.

I smirk inwardly. I wonder if he is depressed?

“What can I do for you?”

“Blood tests – um, results,” I say. It is all very tedious. I must have had these tests FIFTY times in the last two years and the conclusion is almost always “you seem fine but we know you’re not which is what we call CFS”.

“Ah,” she says.

I fill her in. The brief outline – roughly found on my about page - is actually quite a tale now, beginning almost two years ago. Oh christ.

I fiddle with the bow on my dress as she scans the computer for my results. I pick up my handbag ready for all the clear.

“Hmm,” she says.

“Hey?”

“Two things strike me,” she says. “High glucose and cholesterol.”

I sit quietly for a moment.

I mean, am I eighty?

“So…”

“So,” she says, “the cholesterol is probably just because you ate something fatty before, but the glucose is QUITE high so we’ll do a test on a fast and then after that, we’ll see how you do with insulin…”

I throw up my arms. “So there’s something wrong?”

She smiles. “Seems so.”