I want to quit. I want to give up, my body is yet again rebelling against me and making my life so difficult I can barely make myself leave the house when I don’t absolutely have to. How can I carry on with my job when I’m more disabled than the people I’m caring for? I can’t, that’s the problem.
Am I just not meant to work? Am I supposed to just be a scab for the rest of my life, claiming from the government, unable to make any kind of input into the world?
All I want is to be able to feel useful, is that so much to ask? Is that really too much for me to want from my life? I’m not asking to be a millionaire, to own a mansion, to cure world hunger!
The pain is too much and this time…it’s not the MS, this makes it worse somehow, yet another thing to cope with, another diagnosis in my life that I never wanted. But that’s where my mind seems to tear in two…that’s where the problems with my mental state seem to rear their ugly head. Part of me does. Part of me that wants to give up, wishes for a real reason to do so, to just say to the company I work for ‘I’m sorry, I can’t work for you any more, my health won’t let me do it any more’.
If only it was the only time I’ve done this…..
When I was a child at school I was bullied. At primary school I learnt not to trust anyone, my friends were not my friends really otherwise they wouldn’t drop me from their group every couple of days, they would not taunt me, tease me, insult me. I had no coping mechanisms at this age, I had no ways to block them out and no one to talk to, my only escape? To be ill.
I was a sickly child anyway, tonsillitis was a common one for me but hard to fake. Instead I would go for the ‘I’ve been sick version instead, the first couple of times with worked and my mum kept me home but soon she stopped believing me so I had to make myself sick, make my face pale and even find ways to fake a temperature. I would find any way possible to not be at school, even though being at home ‘sick’ meant I had to stay upstairs all day because downstairs was the playgroup during the week. I would rather be at home in bed reading, colouring, listening to the children play downstairs than to be at school.
Faking illness to get out of things that scared me has followed me for decades now, it’s the easy way out. Ironically, when I’m really poorly I will fight tooth and nail to work even if it means I make myself much worse.
Because of my history in this I am now so paranoid that people will not believe me I will do anything to prove that there is something wrong with me. The guilt when I am ill is so ingrained that I have no idea how to fight it because every time I try to challenge those thoughts I end up so tangled in my own past, my own mind that I can’t escape. Even when I had someone else there to help me challenge them, it never really worked. She would come up with really good arguments against them but my brain rebelled and I just could not accept anything she said might be true.
I’m a liar and a fraud, always have been always will be, why should I bother to fight it anymore.