I Am Here

12 Jul

I am here. Still.




I am here, yet I do not feel the euphoria of living. I am tired and sick. Diminished and damaged.

Endometriosis. A horrible cold. Fever. Sore throat. Running nose. Blocked sinuses.

I have travelled through an entire spectrum of pain over the past seven days, only to arrive… here.

I am so overwhelmingly lonely. I am accustomed to living with the sense of constant isolation, only that feeling is now layered over a strange undercurrent of not my usual discontent but something decaying. My soul – something I felt absent for two years until last October – has shown itself to be diseased and dying. It cannot keep my body healthy and it shall never lift my being above its worthlessness.

I am anguished by my failure to be more. I should be something better. I ought to be more precious. I expected life to be… different. I wanted a family.

I wanted to love and be loved.

I know I can never regenerate the decaying fabric of my soul. It can never make itself whole without that for which I shall always yearn: a family of my own; a loving husband and treasured children.

My womb and ovaries are of no use; my eggs are more decayed than my soul. My purpose is to breathe but never live and my destiny is to be worthless to every man I have ever loved. I am cursed. The hex grows darker and more powerful with every passing day. We are living in the age of wickedness and I can feel the chill of evil attacking my skin, seeping into my pores and devouring the invisible, living matter I call a soul.

My breath aches with each movement of my chest… inhaling and exhaling oxygen and pain in unison. I yearn for the caress of peace, to glide softly over my being from head to toe, healing all that is sick and grieving.

For all my failings, I have but one saving grace: compassion. I will continue to shield my loved ones from my heartache and project to the world all that I should have been yet sadly never will: strong; happy; accepted and fulfilled.

Who am I? A chameleon and a deceiver. A mirage and an illusion. I am everything yet nothing in the blink of an eye. I am carefree yet agitated with the shrug of a shoulder. I am warm yet cold with the twist of a smile. I look in the mirror and find someone and no-one, staring from the same red-rimmed eyes. My veins hold the bright blood of a living human and the blackest clots of gangrene from my soul.

I am here… this is my place; my destiny and my punishment. I cannot ever leave this place but I will never stop trying to transform it into a shelter I can call “home”. I will find a way to live here. I will make it my own… no matter how painful an endeavour it may prove to be.

I Want to Escape

28 Jun

I need a break. I long for a holiday; a chance to get away from everything and everyone, although I sadly cannot leave behind my own self. I want to escape so badly. I need to recharge and feel something more… something better.

I have so many thoughts swirling within my head; emotions spinning and blending together, into a cyclone of overwhelming power. I am caught in the air, suspended with no means of stopping the force which has overtaken my life.

I am stuck within a vacuum; I cannot make plans nor escape my restraints. My poor health has blocked my progress and I do not know when I shall be permitted to spread my wings and soar into a future where freedom and choices are as ubiquitous as ants.

Someday, I shall be free. Someday, I shall be able to look at myself and know that I am in control of my own being; I can pursue or reject options at will, instead of being forced to stand still because of Endometriosis.

Working it Out

28 Jun

I’m working it out… as in, going through the required motions of the rest of my life as one would dutifully fulfil an obligatory notice period within an employment contract. In short, I am working like a donkey until I reach the end of the line (my death).

I am not fit enough to work: Endometriosis has crippled my daily life. Yet, I do it anyway because I have no choice; no control; no voice. I started a new job six weeks ago. It was a crazy ‘decision’ but therein lies the problem – there was no degree of choice. I had to accept the role because the hospital screwed up and dismissed my symptoms without investigating. I was pushed into this employment by my local Job Centre… with a screaming 7cm by 5cm cyst on my left ovary and a 1cm by 1.5 cm cyst on the other. I had been bleeding for six weeks at this point, passing clots the size of large brazil nuts at 20 to 90 minute intervals. The pain, of course, was equally intense – but my local hospital instructed that I toodle off home to rejoin the workforce like a healthy person.

I did… and my symptoms are unbearable.

The strain upon my physical and mental health is now immeasurable. A combination of commuting for three hours per day, sitting at a desk for extended periods and trekking across the country for meetings is nothing less than excruciating in my current condition. I cannot begin to describe the horrors I have suffered withn my own body. Each work day is torture: imagine your insides ripping and shredding, stinging and stabbing, bleeding and burning. I am taking pain killers every four hours and I cannot function properly any longer.

Yet, I still go to work. I go because no-one cares if I bleed all day and cry in agony. No-one cares that a worthless human being is still suffering and deteriorating. I have ended up in the emergency room yet again, have fought with the hospital over lack of treatment and now need an urgent MRI scan before a potential hysterectomy. Still, no-one with the power to help genuinely cares. It’s a nightmare.

I am in such pain but I cannot resign from my job. I would be ineligible for help from the state if I were to walk away from employment and I desperately need an income. People called me a “sponger” when I had no job and it weighs heavy in my fears for the future. I do not want to be ill and in need of financial help from the welfare system. I am already unwelcome in society… few welcome the worthless. Yet more shun those deemed to be a burden.

What can I do? My condition is growing worse each day; my health is deteriorating faster than ever and I am struggling at work. I am missing my deadlines and compelled to work endless overtime to catch up on my daily tasks. All the while, my insides are being eviscerated and all I feel is pain. All day, every day… even through painkillers.

I am trying to keep up appearances to the outside world, playing down my symptoms to my employer, family and friends. I keep up my social media feeds, still attend the odd social function and friends’ birthday dinners but all I feel throughout is pain and discomfort. I am overwhelmingly unwell, diminished and constantly exhausted, with a greater sense of loneliness and isolation. I hate having to bear this alone. I hate that I have no best friend nor lover to hug for reassurance and comfort. There is nobody to see me through the daily horror of my situation.

I live with my parents but I have to mask the depth of my pain to spare their ailing health. They’re not stupid and they have understood the gravity of what’s happening to my body: the concern in their eyes only adds to my burden. I feel grief for their grief, sorrow for their helplessness. I am as redundant as they feel. None of us can do anything to fix this so what’s the point in telling them how bad I feel?

My suffering is my cross to bear and I am at the end of the line. I want to die. I really, really want to pass away; peacefully and alone. I want to slip into the haven of freedom, where there is no suffering nor pain. I want to let go and get swept away into the vast expanse of nothingness that I imagine to be death. I am sick of suffering. I am sick of being sick. I am sick of my sickness being irrelevant to the medical world. I am so weary from living in pain and anguish. I just want to die.

What a Day!

23 Jun

I am sitting on a train carriage, heading home, following a two hour detour which saw me mistakenly travel to the opposite side of town, in a haze of confusion. I am exhausted and dazed, making silly mistakes.

That’s pretty much the story of my life: setting off to someplace, somewhere; thinking I know where I’m heading; discovering that I have somehow made a mistake; my plan has spectacularly derailed; I have only myself to blame for my epic stupidity; veering away from oblivion and getting back on track quickly becomes impossible.

This morning, I was told I would be referred for an urgent MRI scan in the imminent future, which will most likely reveal that I require a partial hysterectomy, due to ongoing issues associated with Endometriosis. I will get to keep one ovary – whichever is least damaged by the condition. Lucky me.

I have been in a daze ever since.

It is not impossible for the MRI scan to reveal more promising results, although the fire spreading across my abdomen at this exact second insists upon arguing otherwise. It’s not impossible… only highly improbable.

I feel less than a woman after hearing this news. I have been less for so long – in every conceivable category – yet I have never felt more less than I do now. I grieve for all my failings with bitter regret: why can’t I be like the rest of them? Why am I always unworthy of the things others enjoy so freely: love, fertility, status, purpose, good health.

I am so tired of it all. I want to break free like Freddie Mercury… and die. I’d try, but I’m sure that plan would spectacularly derail as well.

Hopes & Dreams

22 Jun

Tomorrow morning will either shatter all my hopes and dreams or set me on the path towards a better future. At 8am, I shall finally see the gynaecologist and Endometriosis specialist for which I have fought to access for six months. I cannot accurately convey how disgusted I am with my local hospital, for dismissing my suffering for so many months. The bleeding and pain has been crippling; enough to push me towards the arms of Death, reawakening my desire to take my own life.

I’ve had two scans yet no one has bothered to explain the results: my local hospital sent me home after jotting down notes about my endless pain and bleeding. They fobbed me off when I was bent over with severe abdominal pain. They said I had a rupturing cyst on my left ovary, and completely ignored the one growing undisturbed on my right. The did the same on a second occasion and, worse yet, a third time when my left cyst (allegedly) ruptured once again. I had to battle to get scanned as an Outpatient. I had to complain because I snapped from pain and anguish.

I was treated as worthless throughout the entire process. I wasn’t worth their care nor attention. My suffering is irrelevant to them… they are too busy looking after the valued and the worthy.

Animals receive more love and respect in this world than I ever will.

I am sick of being sick. I am sick of suffering. People have no idea how bad Endometriosis really is. They think it’s just a woman having her period and moaning about some extra cramping and a few spots of extra blood. It’s like being stabbed, run over and giving birth all at the same time: contractions 60 to 90 seconds apart; surges of blood spewing from your body like lava from a volcano; simultaneous stabbing sensations up your crotch passage and across your ovaries; pain spreading with a burning fire across your entire abdomen; fatigue and bruising sensations for days afterwards, from your thighs to your rib cage. You can’t even breathe without aching. Every nano-second is a challenge. Every nano-second of a nano-second is a seering hit of pain. It’s unstoppable.

No woman should then have to fight for treatment and medical advice. My local Hospital Trust should be ashamed of itself. What they have put me through over the past six months has been worse than the symptoms described above. I have lost my freedom, my choices, my independence and my happiness. As fleeting as that latter emotion may have been, it was still present and growing until this. Until this debacle with my diagnosis and treatment. The hospital sent me packing with my insides bleeding into my pants; with my ovaries knotted and battered; with my mental health diving into Hell. They didn’t even look at my scan results. They simply ignored a 5cm by 7cm wide cyst. They didn’t even try to disguise their disinterest in my case.

I was, I still am, worthless to everyone. Yet, I managed to kick up a fuss. I battled like a mercenary to get justice for my worthless being. I made them listen. I forced them to look in my direction; in spite of the knowledge that they will never see me as a human being. All they choose to see is trailer trash.

I may be worthless but at least I have compassion. I would never treat people the way others deliberately choose to treat my being. Never. I would rather die.

What a Waste of Time

21 Jun

Yesterday, I found myself plunged into an agonising grief; scraping like gravel along the belly of my soul. It was raw and burning, weeping and unyielding. I managed to experience some relief in the evening, at a friends birthday, but the hours prior had been unbearable. I had an emotional talk with The Forgiven One, the man whose cruelty and actions triggered my breakdown and unveiled my worthlessness to the world. He is not in a good place, haunted by his own actions, and I am sorry for his suffering. I am yet more sorry for the needless pain we have both endured and continue to battle. What a waste of time this episode has been: he caused my breakdown for what gain? Nothing. We are both lost; both ravaged by fear; both scarred by my worthlessness. I wish we had never met. What good did it do for either of us? What was the point?

Yet, I grieve for his condition – no matter how badly he has behaved, I do not wish him any harm. I spent many months in the aftermath of his actions questioning my humanity, cursing my compassion and channeling hate. Through it all I could not exhaust my love; for mankind, for the world, for God, for my family, even for The Forgiven One. I am not in love with him – my heart belongs to another – but he was my family for six years and I cannot ignore his unhappiness.

It hurts that he is in pain; his wounds are mine to bear as well… we were both caught within a single emotional explosion. He delivered the bomb, with purpose and calculating self-interest, to hurt and ridicule my being. I almost died, battling the suicidal thoughts and debilitating grief which subsequently destroyed my being for two years. I had nightmares every night and suffered with anxiety and panic attacks several times a day. It was brutal, ugly and overwhelmingly raw.

I lost my mind and I still don’t have it back. At least, not whole. I have fragments and remnants – disjointed pieces which don’t quite fit together to create a whole person. I am missing all the parts which others deem necessary. I am more worthless than ever as a result.

This outcome has inadvertently led to The Forgiven One’s misery. He expected to incinerate my wellbeing and decimate my mental health without ever having to catch sight of the destruction caused. He didn’t expect to find the ashes of my grief strewn across his path at every turn. He didn’t expect to do anything other than destroy and depart: he predicted that he would simply walk away and never look back.

In truth, neither one of us could have foreseen the level of harm his actions would cause. It was more than harm… it was a nuclear explosion, unleashing a mushroom cloud of toxic gas to settle over our beings. It followed us around, choking and suffocating, clouding and asphyxiating. Particles of grief trapped within our lungs; clots of anguish lodged within our hearts. It burns our existence with every continued breath. It isn’t over. It will never be over: that cloud will stay overhead until the day we die, unseen yet present.

I cannot rewrite the past and I am not wholly accountable for the negative thoughts and actions which affected so many during my mental breakdown. I did not ask to be mistreated: my breakdown was caused by The Forgiven One’s deliberate cruelty. That is his cross to bear: I only offer to support the load out of love, compassion, goodwill and sympathy. I blame myself, however, for the worthlessness which inspired his malice. None of this would have happened had I not been expendable and worthless. I am sad for both The Forgiven One and myself: what a waste of time it was to ridicule and humiliate my being. I am not worth the anguish he now suffers in response to my breakdown. I am not worth a damn thing.

I Wish I Knew Love

21 Jun

I wish I knew love. I wish I knew how it felt to have someone by my side, proud to call themselves mine and I theirs. I wish I had the luxury of being able to share my world: joys, pains, choices, experiences… time. What an amazing gift to have someone with which to share time. Seconds. Minutes. Years. Eternity.

My time is so empty and pointless.

If only there was someone who could love me enough to place a value upon my soul; someone who would see me as a prize instead of trailer trash. I am so lonely, so alone and unlovable. I do not know what to do with the expanse of time ahead. I want to give and receive love, to share love, but my love is worthless. As am I. I cannot find love because no one out there is looking for me. I am the rubbish people throw out, not the treasure anyone fights to discover and keep.

I know there are many forms of love – all wonderful – and I am grateful for the affections of family and friends. Yet, I long for something independent of my genes. I long to be wanted for more than my DNA and family ties. I yearn to be chosen not inherited. I pine for someone to see my worth, no matter how tiny. I have no idea how it feels to have another rejoice in my existence by choice. I have never been loved, I am only ever used and humiliated.

I look at couples in the street, on the train, in parks, at the mall – everywhere – and wonder if they realise how lucky they are. Do they know what a blessing it is to be wanted? Do they pause to give thanks for being worthy and loveable? I wonder if they acknowledge how special they are. It must be amazing to know that you are loved by choice and not because you’re someone’s relation.

I cannot imagine that euphoria. I cannot fathom how it must feel to be wanted. I cannot imagine being loved by a partner and knowing you deserve it because you’re far from worthless. I know nothing of such things. I have never been valued and accepted. I have never known compliments, praise and kindness from a lover. I have only ever been humiliated or brutalised. I have never been a person in the eyes of a lover; just a thing to be used and discarded like trash.

What is it like to give and receive love? What is it like to be wanted? I wish I knew… even for a single day. I wish I knew how it felt to be that precious… that special. I wish I was one of them and anyone but me.


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