No longer a book

I haven’t the slightest idea why, but today has a feeling to it that somehow means I am playing catch-up, which is complete madness as I have nothing to catch-up with. I love odd sensations like that, when somewhere in the back of your mind something is triggered and try as you might, there is neither explanation or even a way of shutting it off. I guess that like many another things it is our way of interpreting something that would have made total sense to our ancestors, like the fight or flight feeling, but we as so called modern man just don’t have the first idea what it is all about, so we attach the closest sensible idea and then try not only to make it fit, but to make sense.

I have always been a person who has to have an answers to everything, not knowing isn’t acceptable, even my last career was all about telling the bosses what the company was doing and why, the figure were the start of my job, the answers to go with them, the more interesting part. My need to understand anything and everything, probably is another reason that I write so much, I can go through all my feelings, all the facts and all the possibilities, added to the responses here and on twitter usually means I start to understand, if not fully find the answer I am looking for. I am beginning to understand how come there is so little on the internet about the real life with chronic illness and or being housebound, so far I haven’t found it to hard to keep writing but there are now days appearing when I have to admit I am finding it just a little tough. I guess that the truth is once you become ill and slowly get worse, not the drive to write but the energy to, will start to disappear. There may actually be millions of started blogs, books and so on, all written with the intention of providing a valuable source of information that never actually reach the final market they were intended for. Just a year ago I had it so clearly set out that I was going to bring all of this together and I was going to produce a e-book from it all, well to be honest not just one, but one a year until I could write no longer, I now doubt it will ever happen. Yes I can write daily, but I don’t then have the energy to do the further work needed to make it a book.

I now actually believe that the one of the truths about illness is that sufferer is probably the person least able to assess their progression of their illness. I really don’t think any of us really see what is happening to us, in fact I think we are the last to see it. I know that now for several reasons but probably the biggest one is Adam. A year ago he wouldn’t have fussed around me in the way he does now, there are far more questions about how I am and what I need, not at just that moment but 20 or 30 of moments everyday. A year ago there might have been a question as he went to work, one when he phoned at lunchtime and another during the evening, but now almost every time I move, he checks, because he feels that he needs to. Clearly what he sees, is not what he saw a year ago, and if he sees it, it has to be worse than I think it is. Don’t take that wrongly, I am not criticizing him in any way, this is only a way of describing what is happening, an observation of his reaction to what he is seeing. Although I didn’t put it into words here, that is why I wanted him with me in with the doctor when ever I go to the hospital now. A few years ago I would go by myself, now I need him there because he can tell the doctors probably more than I can, exactly how I am as the person he lives with.

None of us ever really see ourselves and I had never thought or realised just how much that is magnified by illness. I had no concept that when I started writing that I could or would be sat here one day saying I don’t know if I will have the energy to maintain writing on a daily bases. For now I can, but I can also honestly see that it isn’t realistic to expect myself to go on for ever. I don’t intend to stop tomorrow, that isn’t anywhere in my immediate plans, but I have a much clearer understanding of my own illness than I did in December 2011 when I was writing for me, or in June 2012 when I though I could start to write a series of books, because my writing has actually shown me the truth.