It just occurred to me that today is the third anniversary of the MRI scan in Germany, and hearing the diagnosis I thought would finally put my life back into order. In light of that nothing could be more ironic than my current situation.
Although I'm being heavily censored, I'll nevertheless attempt to give a description of the events as they occurred. I just recovered from another 30 minute long paralyzation attack, triggered just before starting dinner. It first made me feel shocked deep inside, the feeling of not being able to believe what one just heard, slowly growing into a feeling of being overwhelmed. By the end of dinner I slowly made my way upstairs to my room, already feeling that I was losing control over my muscles.
I did get in front of my computer, hoping that it might distract me and maybe make the event pass without causing me to withdraw into myself. Unfortunately I had no such luck. I felt the familiar fatalistic thoughts and the knowledge that I had reached every limit I could reach. As I realized that I was going to have to ride this one out again without being in control of it, I attempted to get from my chair to my bed, removing the notepad which was lying on it and noticing that my muscle control had degraded to the point where controlled motions were quite hard.
Realizing it would be lucky if I managed to get to my I tried to get into the best position, turning my chair so that it was next to my bed and I should be able to just slide over. Unfortunately I miscalculated and I simply fell off my chair, hit my knees on the floor first, then hurt my left hip as only my right arm and head made it onto the bed. My neck found itself lodged somewhat painfully on the edge, and my left shoulder pressed tightly against the side of the bed. This is the position I found myself stuck in for a full thirty minutes, unable to move, unable to speak or cry out for help.
Not that crying out for help would do me much good these days, though. As said by many before me, Hell is defined by irony. Having the one person who is always there for you when you need help the most turn into the one actively causing discomfort is a perfect example. Committing suicide as a result would then be the ultimate irony.
Just thinking about my current situation I feel sickened and very much discouraged. It's somewhat akin to finding oneself lying with a broken leg somewhere in the midst of some kind of wilderness, without having any clue as to which direction is the right one, while feeling sick from the pain. Melodramatic comparison, I know. Yet it's also very much alike. Such as how most people when stranded in a hostile area will continue to fight, will refuse to let themselves become a victim of circumstances, and do everything they can to survive, I too refuse to become a victim of circumstances. Yet one can stave off the predators and other threats for only so long until succumbing.
I got a response back from city hall earlier today, basically telling me to apply for social housing for urgent cases. I guess that's what I'll be doing. I really do not feel happy or anything else at the thought of moving, though. I'll still be alone. I just won't have people preying on me in real life. I hope. Otherwise it'll still be the same old story. The spark of joy inside my chest is as strong as the fire in a pile of week-old ashes.
Remembering how I felt on that day, exactly three years ago, I can not describe the feelings which threaten to tear me apart. It's such a bitterly poisonous irony to recall the intense feeling of relief and rightness of that day and then remember how every single last bit of those feelings getting crushed slowly during the next years until only the current me is left: a bitter, disillusioned being, a mere shadow, wandering around aimlessly without knowing the reason for its existence.
Isn't life wonderful?