Friday, 17 December 2010

Emergency Room, Yet Again

A few moments ago I was yet again at the local hospital's ER to have whatever condition I have checked out. From what little I can remember - because my memory is still seriously failing me - there is an inflammation in my chest which causes the chest pains, but I do not have bronchitis or worse, just a really bad cold combined with far too much stress to be healthy. The doctor's advice was to take it easy, relax, take a vacation, etc.

I have a deadline to make or I'll be living on the street early next year. Relaxing? I don't even know what the word means.

I'm really feeling at a loss here, to be quite honest. Not only will I keep feeling miserable for the next few weeks, be forced to skip one of my few social events of the week because I can't go outside, have to cancel a family dinner if I don't start feeling better really soon, and on top of that I also can't do any, or at least a significant amount of work because it's pushing me too hard?

To be honest I think that my work is the only thing keeping me slightly sane, while everything outside it, in the so-called 'Real World', is more of a kind of freakish nightmare of which I don't know how in blaze's name I ended up there. All I know is that I do not wish to spend any significant amounts of time there as it's bloody confusing and utterly painful.

Drama, yes. Lots of it. Welcome to my life. It's sometimes hard for me to step back and realize just how strangely I appear to others, especially in my desire to end my own life if I don't get a few answers about how my body is put together. Yes, my body is healthy, there's nothing wrong with it, I don't suffer from some kind of mystery illness or anything. And yet I so loathe it for what it stands for. Because of what its existence has done to my life. I don't just feel bitter about it, it's something far stronger than that.

Something like, why does everyone around me seem to know how their body works, but is this somehow information I'm not allowed to know. What is going on? What am I supposed to do with this body? I can't figure it out on my own. I need help here. Why am I not getting any help? Did I do something wrong? Shouldn't I have been born? Is my mere existence a mistake?

Facts and actions speak louder than words, and thus everything anyone tries to tell me to assure me that there's nothing wrong with me and that I'm okay just the way I am, and that one day I will get those answers and that I will just need to hang on for a little bit longer can just keep talking and talking, but they can not make me feel better. I know that they're trying to make me feel better, but they can not talk away my suffering at the hands of the cruel psychologists and doctors in this country. It is a fact that I was and still am being treated like garbage.

Maybe that UMC Utrecht hospital can change this view, but at the moment the doctor there is still on vacation so I won't know until later next year at the earliest. I also sent an email to the Middlesex clinic at a London hospital, and a friend sent a few emails to a couple of Norwegian hospitals. Further maybe my appearance next month in a big German magazine will make something in that country happen, it is a pretty good article. Finally Linda Voortman can maybe do something for me after our talk in about one month time.

All hope isn't lost, but I wish I at least had a stable financial and living situation. Those two things alone would take away so many of my troubles and stress. I'd like a life of my own, not feeling like I'm living on the scraps of other people's lives. I already have zero self-esteem without all these issues and people bashing me over the head with things they see as failings about me and my life.

I'm trying, even if I perhaps really do suck at life. I'll be quitting by the end of next year if it still hasn't worked out, though. One has to know when to stop being foolhardy.


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