It Sucks be a Grown Up

Sometimes it is okay to not be okay. It’s okay to just have a massive tantrum and cry because sometimes, just sometimes, that is exactly what you need. My old therapist used to say that the things that have affected us in the past are like a poison that needs to be drawn out of a wound. It hurts like hell when you stick the needle in, but once it’s out you eventually forget it ever hurt that much.

I’m often terrified that people will realised I am not what I seem.  How the hell do I have a flat? Pay the bills? Interact with other people? What do you mean I run my own business? Are you CRAZY? I’m still a 12 year old playing scrabble with myself whilst listening to audio tapes of Fawlty Towers on an ex-school BBC tape player, with my hamster nestled under my chin.

I am not a grown up.

Now, normally I find this to be a good thing. I enjoy life much more and see fun and beauty in things that a lot of people ignore. If I’m in a maze then I going to be humming the Mission Impossible theme and jumping out at people with my finger gun or shouting “I must find the Tri-wizard Cup!”.  Most days this is great.

But then there are days like today. The days when it occurs to be that I am entirely responsible for my financial and medical wellbeing.  The days when you have to fight with HMRC and end up crying even though you were right and they have accepted that. The days when you think “Actually, I don’t know if insert any family member’s name here is okay. Oh, God, what if something truly terrible has happened?” and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

Weirdly, these aren’t the days when my Fibromyzombies are really bad. I think my concern for the fire going on in my body and brain distract from the everyday worries of a grown up.  Annoyingly this seems to occur on some of the precious few days when it seems like my body is kind of listening to me.

I find discussing finance and dates over the phone very difficult indeed. It’s like the Zombies kick in and I go completely blank. I’m fine if I have someone in front of me and I can explain nicely that they need to be patient because sometimes it takes a little while to access the correct drawer in my brain. This doesn’t seem to work on the phone. They seem determined to talk over the top of you and give you a barrage of questions before you’ve managed to answer the first.

Anyway, this was kind of my way of “drawing out the poison from the wound”. Hopefully now that I’ve done it, my brain can move on.

Love and Letters (Not the ones from the tax office)

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