Getting pretty worried about my legs.

I think they are just getting weaker and weaker.

That ol’ wheelchair is getting closer every day.

Take right now. All I did today was my IV antibiotics treatment. All that entails is me making it to the car and back plus a little bit of walking in the hospital itself.

Normally, it’s no big deal. But for some reason, today it has left me feeling like I walked a long distance. I took a nap when we got back and when I woke up, my legs were sore and stiff and felt kind of… bruised?

Now granted, I took that fall onto my knees recently. That might explain a lot. Except that you would think they would hurt like that all the time in that case.

As for that fall, and the previous one : they both happened because my legs don’t act like legs any more. They are more like stilts made of bone.

That’s because my knees just do not flex properly any more. They haven’t in quite a while. And that seriously limits my locomotion because it means I can’t react or adapt to the unexpected or the uneven on the fly at all.

I can walk over perfectly flat or carpeted surfaces and that’s about it.

And even then, that is not guaranteed, because sometimes a knee or an ankle will randomly lock up on me.

I have actually been falling a lot lately. I am just lucky that the vast majority of times it has happened, it’s been within a few inches of that giant crash pad I call my king sized bed, so no harm is done.

But I take a tumble of some sort roughly once a day, on average. Therefore it is just a matter of time before I do really hurt myself.

Did I say the wheelchair was getting closer? Well so is me full of tubes lying in a hospital bed, unable to even go to the bathroom on my own any more.

At least I am finally feeling some fear instead of my usual dull apathy. Hopefully I am through with watching my health fall apart with the same sort of detachment with which a cow looks at a passing train.

I am going to grab hold of this fear and hold it close to my heart because only it can free me from this tortuous downward slide. Only the perfectly reasonable fear of the very bad things in store for me if I don’t shape up will motivate me to change.

And even then it’s a battle. Because the diseased part of my mind wants all those bad things to happen to me. It’s overjoyed to keep me tied to the tracks while that steaming locomotive comes barreling towards me, each car a different medical horror waiting to make my life far worse than merely playing video games all the time.

I don’t want it to win. But it has the controls for now. As long as it can freeze my will and punish all attempts to escape my doom, it’s in charge, not me.

So the question is : how far will I go to avoid having to take responsibility for my life?

Will I let the madman within doom me to a nightmarish fate rather than toughen up and actually take control of my fate?

Or will I finally snap out of this deadly dream and escape before it’s too late?

Stay tuned and find out.

More after the break.

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Fuck this life, again

(WARNING : The following contains non-explicit talk of pooping. )

Everything was fine (ish) till I pooped.

Roundabout 7 pm, I felt the urge to move my bowels.

Good, I thought. I haven’t done so lately, largely because of lack of appetite^[1], and I figured I must be quite overdue.

But I had forgotten about how life insists on punishing me constantly but from different angles so I never get used to it.

The operation itself went smoothly. No issues. But when I got up after, I got hit with the unfortunately familiar feeling that everything still in my guts had just turned to wet concrete and was now sludging up my entire lower GI tract.

And with that, my appetite once more vanished. The gut is at least smart enough to know that if things stop moving out, things HAVE to stop coming in.

So here I am sitting with a gut full of mud, unable to enjoy ordering in like I do every Saturday because I sure as fuck ain’t wasting money on food I can’t eat.

As it is, I will struggle just to eat a little snack in order to comply with my “WITH FOOD” labeled meds. Food seems totally gross to me right now.

I can’t even resort to my usual dodge in this situation, which is fruit. Even when nothing else appeals to me, nice lovely fresh fruit manages to at least seem palatable.

And you know why I can’t eat fresh fruit?

Because I can’t bend down low enough to reach the crisper bin where we keep all out fresh fruit, that’s why.

My anti-inflammatory Naproxen has banished the pain but not the stiffness.

So yeah, fuck this stupid life of mine. I want out. I want to vanish from here and appear someplace where I can earn a living and have a home and have a husband and get respect and dignity and feels useful and wanted and loved.

I deserve so much better than this stupid shitshow of an existence. I am charismatic, lovable, brilliant, extremely talented, and capable of doing so much in the world.

But first I have to ditch this fucking depression that keeps me locked away behind invisible doors which aren’t even locked.

They don’t have to lock the doors if you’re afraid of them.

I am prisoner, jailer, and prison all in one.

So how do I get me to let me go?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.