That out-of-the-world feeling, the disconnection, along with the overwhelming fatigue, stumbling, mangled words, etc.
It must be Relapse Time.
MS has flicked through it’s malicious diary, thought, ‘hmm, let’s see, last one was in …. oh yes, February. I’m thinking August sounds about right. Bring it on and let the games begin’.
It started three days ago and I’m struggling to get the bare minimum done. And by bare minimum, I mean barely getting by with the minimum. The washing basket is overflowing, the paperwork is mounting up and I’m re-reading the same page of my novel over and over again. Some bright spark chose ‘A Suitable Boy’ by Vikram Seth for our next book club. 1500 pages. I may have to Wiki it.
On the other hand, The Teenager is having a fabulous time shouting out, ‘watch the wall!’, ‘d’oh, there goes another plate’ and ‘nah, don’t understand what you’re saying, soz, that’s not even a word, muvver.’
Luckily at work on Friday, there were loads of people on site, so I was able to sit in a corner pretending to look at complex building plans. Whenever anyone walked past, I whipped out a pencil and appeared to be calculating steel beams and floor boards. I got away with it. Back home, I stumbled to my sofa, collapsed and lay there for three hours.
I physically couldn’t get up. I wanted to, I needed to get stuff done, make dinner, appear normal, be a mum. I simply couldn’t. The Teenager came downstairs, modelling his newest t-shirt. I cocked an eye open, told him how lovely it was and apologised. What more could I do?
The next day, I woke up, yawned, went out for the essentials, yawned, came back home and went back to sleep. When I woke, I yawned and thought about going back to sleep. I stumbled to the kitchen, yawning, dropped a plate (this one bounced) then back to the sofa. And repeat.
The only ‘good’ (and I hesitate to use that word) thing about a relapse is that it concentrates the mind right down to the base level. If you can just drag yourself through the day, that’s an achievement. Nothing else matters. All the stress of the last few weeks means nothing when you’re gripping bannisters and falling over in the kitchen.
The aim is to get through this as quickly as possible, to yank my brain back from it’s wanderings. To rein in all the physical symptoms so that they’re more manageable. In short, to become me again.