Mid-Life/Illness Crisis

(Ooo forbidden wine tastes all the sweeter.)

*Warning: This post may have been written after a glass of forbidden wine and a shitty day. May be a tad ranty and hysterical. But hey, it's like that some days.

In my last post I mentioned that I was in Over It mode. And I really am. I am over seeing doctors. I am over getting needles stuck in my arms. I am over taking a bucket load of pills each day. I am over not being able to walk out to my mail box. I am over talking about illness. I am over being ill and everything that goes with it.

I hear the cry now.

But Michelle you can't give up. You must have hope.

And this post isn't about hope, or that I've lost hope, or that people continually telling me not to lose hope has transformed the word hope into a four letter word (actually that last one is true. People stop with the hope talk. It assumes that I have lost something when you haven't bothered to ask if I have. And I haven't. Saying it sucks doesn't instantly equal loss of hope. And frankly the more you shove that four letter word in my face the more my stubborn self will tell you where to stick it.) This blog is about the fact that I have reached my 7 (okay 8) Year Itch and am having a mid-illness crisis.

I have played the game. I have followed the rules and towed the company line. I have drunk the Kool-Aid and been a good sickie.

And I'm over it.

When Anastasia sang:

'Cause I'm sick and tired

Of always being sick and tired

I was shouting “I hear you sista! You tell 'em.”

I am sick of being sick.

I am over it and need to pretend for a while. For sanity's sake. I am going to buy my sports car and get a hot young thing called a life. I am going to party like it's 1999, because I was rather well in 1999 (well apart from the whole hysterectomy thing, but hey lets ignore that part and go with the theme I'm creating here, okay? Okay).

I am going to smell some roses. I'm going to ignore some of the appointments I'm supposed to be making. I'm going to push myself in my wheelchair with my arms of patheticness even though I will end up face-planting on this keyboard as a result. I'm going to sip a glass of wine (one may have been sipped whilst I was writing this). I'm going to eat what I'm not supposed to eat. I am going to wear high heels and stand up in the sun.

I am just beyond illness. I am beyond the foulness and the ickiness and the sadness and the life is fricken unfairness. I don't care if it's delusional. I don't care if it makes me a bad sickie. I don't care if my doctors will look at me and go,“well she's noncompliant. Bad patient, bad.”

I am going to get my hair plugs and put on some fake tan. And say a big “Fuck it!”

Everyone else gets a Rostered Day Off or some Long Service Leave. I think I've put in my hours. Done loads of overtime and a heap of pro bono.

I want to do my version of Eat, Pray, Love. Even if it's more stuff myself with chocolate to say suck it to my migraine and fibre rich foods to give gastroparesis the middle finger, worship at the altar of HBO and My Cat is a Dick, and love the softness of my arse-print on the chaise portion of our lounge.

I'm Over it, people. Over it, I say.

Intermission time. Just like back when movies had intermission. I'm going to head up to the snack bar and grab a Choc top and some Maltesers. Maybe some more popcorn with a tonne of butter and salt and a bag of Jaffas. I'm going to roll them down the isles and put my feet up on the back of the chairs.

Suck it, Dysautonomia. Suck it.

I'm taking back life. It's mine I tell you. Not yours. For once I'm sending you the rough end of the pineapple. Bend over and brace.

Because this time I'm living and ignoring and pretending.

And being a bad patient. Bad sickie. Bad advocate.

Screw inspiration. Screw fighting the good fight.

Now I am living, badly, stupidly and totally inappropriately.

Because I can. And because sometimes a dose of stupidly defiant, cut your nose off to spite your face, is just what the doctor ordered.

Michelle

Remember to head on over here to donate to my Clicking My Heels For Dysautonomia, raising money for the Greg Page Fund for Orthostatic Intolerance and Dysautonomia research, at The Baker IDI. Thanks to the generosity of many we've already raised over $2,000, keep donating and hopefully we can reach $10,000.