Honesty is a bitch.
I haven't been feeling up to much lately - physically, mentally.
My results came back from my hospital stay, delivered by a youthful, pretty girl, not yet qualified who will go home tonight and tell her young boyfriend about the middle aged lady crying in her office today.
This is the world of the Medical No-man's-land: no diagnosis.
I stopped her from talking anymore right after she began: You're going to tell me to go home because you couldn't find anything?
I asked her if I should accept the status quo or keep hoping (and pursuing) improvement.
She suggested the former.
She tried to fob me off with a rehabilitation doctor and pain clinic appointment, but I'm afraid this is simply not sufficient nor satisfactory anymore.
I drove through Rotterdam in tears, not giving a shit what I looked like should anyone see - a blessing when you're 40-fucking-1.
And then I turned the radio on, and the Beatles were singing 'Take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life'.
There must be a god.
I stopped for Port on the way home.
But - this is the conundrum - which way do I go from here?
Against all reasonable advice - union, lawyer, medical: I have to quit my job.
I don't know how, but I have to.
I'll be dead in a year if I go back.
So that would be step 1.
I've been reading up on Low Dose Naltrexone (Naltrexone is really for [us] alcoholics and drug addicts, you give it to someone who has overdosed on heroin - but small doses help to strengthen immune systems and fight pain and fatigue).
My GP knows nothing about it but understands my desperation and is willing to give it a try.
That would amount to step 2.
I have no idea where to go after that.
It's been a thoroughly shit year, and instead of getting better, I've gotten worse.
Not only the stress from being-ill-with-no-probable-cause, but the stress it places on one's family and then work stress also making itself known.
The things that continue to ring my bell are, and remain to be, my family, my mum, painting and studying.