The paper-thin walls of the past
Another gloomy day of fug between me and my enjoyment of the kids' company as the stabbing down my leg continued. I've cried more frequently than I have for a long time, the frustrated crying that helps no one and is self-piteous and highly illogical but allows you to displace your anger in hot salty water. Yesterday a trip to a different hospital entailed having to pay for an entirely new, identical consultation and various contradictory messages about the strength of drugs, after-effects of suppositories (yes, I have been baptised into the up-yer-bum coven...i never knew you could fart grease)...then, clutching the buttery bullets that I'd been trying to treat in an adult, French manner rather than a tittery imaginary lens onto my anus, I suddenly felt all hot and humiliated and exhausted after multiple sleepless nights and confusions around the variegated, pay-as-you-go health system. It was like a very delayed culture shock- me deliberately misinterpreting the situations I'd inserted myself to in order to justify childish tantrum-like emotions.
I have left this entry too long to remember what it was meant to be about. Since then I have also had acupuncture, which was more helpful by the realistic reassurances by Yuzo (husband of Cynthia, my awesome new Swiss friend) that it would take cycles of getting better/worse before I could really be cured, rather than expecting miracles. I was pricked with 5cm-long needles in my bum, knees and ankles, and given a wonderful massage and stretch. Feeling comfortable with the informal, friendly atmosphere was such a contrast with the feeling of being under the local microscope at the hospital, where I entered with rigid goals and, when they were met with challenges, I allowed one minor frustration (paying consultation fees, waiting for butter bullet deliveries) to pile up on another.
Feeling better!
I have left this entry too long to remember what it was meant to be about. Since then I have also had acupuncture, which was more helpful by the realistic reassurances by Yuzo (husband of Cynthia, my awesome new Swiss friend) that it would take cycles of getting better/worse before I could really be cured, rather than expecting miracles. I was pricked with 5cm-long needles in my bum, knees and ankles, and given a wonderful massage and stretch. Feeling comfortable with the informal, friendly atmosphere was such a contrast with the feeling of being under the local microscope at the hospital, where I entered with rigid goals and, when they were met with challenges, I allowed one minor frustration (paying consultation fees, waiting for butter bullet deliveries) to pile up on another.
Feeling better!