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Woke up at 4am — not for a cosmic vision, no, just the usual pee pee ritual. And that was that. No sleep. Brain on, pain on, day ruined before it began.
Lemmy said it best: "No sleep 'til Hammersmith." Except I wasn’t heading for rock glory — I was limping toward a garage and a medical breakdown.
No brain fog . Tinnitus mercifully silent — probably saving itself for later. Pain? A knife twisting inside me like Satan’s letter opener.
But still, I had to drive. No meds allowed. NHS says suffer, so I did. Slid out of bed like a cursed slug, wheeled myself to the kitchen, food made it worse (of course), and then the bowel pain — oh the bowel pain.
You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re reminiscing about that one time on the NHS table, a camera going places no camera should ever go. We’ll save that horror show for another blog — or perhaps a full-blown gothic novel.
Still, I washed, dressed (miracle), and drove. I was in agony but present. Almost proud. Dropped the van at the new garage — not nasty Jim this time, thank Beelzebub. Just regular, decent humans. A miracle. Almost felt human.
Back in the chair. Felt like I’d been skinned emotionally. Called Albertine “Muriel” — sorry, love. The fog came in hard. Brain barely ticking. But the van passed its MOT — no advisories. So something went right.
Retirement soon. Thank the dark gods. Honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far.
Still here though. Still writing. Still surviving the fire.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
