Ill with urges

Long dreary weeks have passed since I last set eyes on this space. I wish I could say I´ve been busy travelling, socialising or even working. But no. This crash has according to some spiralling plann been worse than any other. And now, when the haziest days finally are behind me, the illness has again advanced its permanent hold of my abilities. Two months ago watching a film on the couch equaled rest, as did opting for the wheelchair. Now they both equal activity beyond my reach. 23 hours a day I spend horisontally, the 24th divided in to brief ventures to the bathroom or kitchen throughout the day. And still, although I shiver or sweat like I have a fever, my heart pounds so hard it feels like its about to burst or my hands tremble holding the toothbrush, I am at the same time perfectly capable of normal feelings like being hungry, horny, have a sweeth-tooth of really really fancying a pint (preferably a Butty Bach at the Barrels).

It certainly gets boring, but when you´re so ill that breathing is plenty, the imagination takes over even for a realist like me. Mum could come in to my dark room many hours apart, and it annoyed me that she disturbed me in my vivid fantasy world. Its now, when I sometimes feel well enough for phonecalls, films and making my own cup of tea, that it gets difficult to get back in bed quick enough not to ruin all these weeks of resting. How will I ever learn not to push the limits too far? And how long can I consume artificcial life before reality comes out of reach? Every day is like walking on eggshells.

On another note. I came to think of the saying "you never know who really are you friends until you really need them" or something like that. Well I´ve never been one to have loads of friends. And I´ve never been one with a group of girl friends a´la "Sex and the city", who do anything for eachother, go on mad holidays together and who talk about everything. I´ve never had a best friend. It probably boils down to something from my childhood or something deep and psychological like that. But I was a lonley child and grew up to become an adult who deep inside only trusted in herself. So I guess I expected people to feel sorry for me when they heard about my situation, but forget the minute they hung up the phone or logged off the computer. Afterall we are all the lead characters only in our own lives. But a year and a bit in to the disaster of mine, and unexpected messages still keep appearing on the screen, in the post and in my phone. All sticking to my heart like post-it notes, and I hope that one day I can do more than just say how much it means to me not to be forgotten.