The Selfish Disease

It’s been a tough day…actually, I’m having a tough time, for many reasons: three weeks today, I sit an exam for the first OU module I’ve managed to complete in about six years of trying; my Sister is currently coming to the end of her second day of what is apparently known as a ‘hesitant labour’, meaning her body wants the baby out, but the baby doesn’t want to come out; and the pup seems to be going through some kind of alarming, adolescent phase and, though I wouldn’t change him for the World, I’m alone with him a lot and it’s incredibly exhausting.

So, unsurprisingly, SH has reared it’s, quite literally, ugly head again.  After a visit to the Practice Nurse this morning, I came home and had a bit of a meltdown on the kitchen floor.  Don’t panic, though, because my Dad was there, swooping to the rescue as he does, listing all the reasons why I’m struggling as though he is the very voice inside my mind.  (To clarify, there was a bit of sarcasm there; my Dad often has ‘all the answers’, but is also frequently wide of the mark).  Anyway, amongst the snot and tears, I remarked that I felt selfish, having this indescribable, inexplicable struggle with…well…life, while my Sister endures unimaginable pain in a stifling maternity ward.  Having ‘all the knowledge’, as well as ‘all the answers’, my Dad responded that I have a ‘selfish illness’, but not to worry, because ‘[the family] understand, and have come to terms with it’…

Now, I know he didn’t mean this as it sounded, or how I have written it here.  But the other thing about this illness, is that it warps everything you hear, such that things like this (however intended) stick, and that your mind holds on to its own interpretation, like a dog with a bone.

So that is what I sleep on tonight, the words long evaporated into the ether, hours after the event.



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