I can’t remember about 60% of this week so with any luck this’ll be short and sweet. But it’s been a week of blood sweat and tears, literally.
In general on this blog I am OK talking about my feelings, often very personal feelings, which I put out there knowing the risk that I’m making myself vulnerable but having an overriding need for the catharsis that’s in it. But other than that I suppose it’s not a very personal blog. It ranges from ‘I feel like I want to die, let me tell you how that feels’ to ‘I ate an incredible cheeseburger, let me tell you about that’. There’s no happy medium with me.
Believe it or not I’m a pretty private person. So I don’t talk about everything that’s going on behind the scenes, as much as I might like someone to talk to about these things. So I’m not going to go into details of this week but put it this way: I didn’t try to end my life or do anything ‘stupid’.
I ended up in hospital because I became very ill. It was very scary and sudden, and long and short of it is I’m finally back home, wiped out but relieved.
In times of need, whether it’s mental or physical or both, it becomes clear who cares about you and who doesn’t. People you thought would be there for you disappear. People who have never let you down continue to be your home team and you make a mental note never to take that for granted. People who you would never have predicted you’d find yourself relying on for support surprise and comfort you.
With my return home this week comes relief. I can start to put the blood sweat and tears behind me, gradually, as I begin my physical recovery. But with my return home this week also comes a sense of loss. Nobody else can see it, but I can feel it. And I feel it alone.