I tell you what whoever said there was was NOTHING like your own bed wasn’t lying. After almost a week sleeping on Christiaan’s folks spare bed I would have punched a granny for a decent nights sleep. The irony of it all, is that its Christiaan’s old bed from when he lived in his own bigger boy house down in that Chesterfield. I’d slept in it loads prior to him moving up, every other weekend to be precise but I can only presume I was so swept away by his masculine charm that I hadn’t really noticed it was a lot like sleeping on a deflated lilo on top of actual stones. It’s an uncomfortable bastard – fact. It’s also “only” a double – every time he rolled over he either wafted the duvet letting ALL the cold air in, twatted me in the face or almost sent me flying. We’ve already established that I’m a lady who needs a lot of sleep… I think we all know whats coming….I didn’t get a lot of sleep. The BEST thing about coming home, apart from being able to have a good scratch of the fanjo and pick of the nose in peace, is your own bed and ole Simba (my mattress and life changer) and I have been re-establishing our relationship since Thursday night. It’s now Saturday day time and I’ve decreed it jamma day because, well it’s 12.50 and although Eli and Christiaan have been up since before 6, I’ve spent more time sleeping that awake.
This is because I got too cocky yesterday you know. A walk to the butchers in the village and back, probably 15 mins max and sorting out some of Eli’s clothes to sell (yes I sell them… I’ll tell you more another time) means that my body has gone on some kind of strike. As an act of rebellion I’ve eaten an Easter Egg that weighs more than my head and have decided this shall be a Fat Club free weekend… I plan to drown in calories, which of course, will give me nothing but energy and good vibes. Oh how we snort – but it needs to happen sometimes, the routine needs to stop, trying needs to stop and I WANT to give in, just for a wee while. Not in a morose flinging myself on the floor and weeping kind of what but in a “I want melted cheese on toast and why the fuck should I not have it” kind of way. So I am and when I get to fat club on Monday and she tells me I’ve put on, I WON’T punch kebab Margaret in her face, I’ll high five her and start my war all over again. Even though it takes me ages to shift weight and I desperately WANT to be lighter so it feels easier doing the basics…. I also want to enjoy my journey, and sometimes that means stopping the train and going to watch some proverbial hookers. Life does not run on lettuce alone.
Now when I’m in this frame of mind it’s allllllllllll about bread – what I can have a sandwich with, how lovely the butter will be when its toasted… how it feels to have toast crumbs down your norks (irritating but comforting) so I was RIGHT looking forward to a slice of toast when I got away from fat club land and down to Christiaan’s folks. I’d even bought chocolate spread under the pretense of laddo wanting it; I was salivating at the thought.
First morning I sidled up to the toaster, got all of my accompaniments out and opened the bread bin. To this.
THAT is not fucking bread. That’s 400g (yes the small fucking loaf) of thin, cardboard misery. I love my in laws, genuinely love them, but I will NEVER forgive them for getting in tiny white thin bread when I needed them most. It was like eating two crackers. I was bereft. So much so in fact that I made Christiaan take me to Morrisons that afternoon and we bought a big bastard fresh loaf, I cut it ridiculously thick for a cheese sarnie and ended up in a carb coma for the rest of the afternoon.
When will I learn? Eejit.
With three other adults on hand to help with Eli and no work to contend with my energy levels were a bit more forgiving than they are at home, I was able to do something most days for a few hours. It was a relief really because Christiaan’s parents don’t really understand M.E. and I can’t say I blame them to be honest – so if I could put a brave face on and get us out then I was going to. They don’t need the worry or stress of trying to work something out like this – not when they don’t get to see Christiaan and Eli anywhere near enough thanks to the distance.
I even managed a meal out on the Sunday we arrived with Christiaan’s mates (big up Sid and Shona), we were home for 9 mind but it was nice to feel like we were out living with “the other people” even if I was bumbling like a chief numpty through tiredness. Never underestimate how “normal” can feel to someone who doesn’t see it very often – I went “out out” and it was both embarrassing and refreshing.
I reckon by far and away the nicest times we had were with Christiaan’s folks though. They adore Eli – he’s their only grandkid and I think if I could bottle their smiles when they’re talking to him I would. We managed an hour or so at a petting zoo and a wee easter egg hunt round their garden – both lovely memories for them to think of now that we’re 300 miles away again.
So, I’m home, I’ve slept, I’ve had chocolate, I’ve had bread and I’ve also publicised this blog for the first time. I had initially kept it’s existence within my inner circle of trust – my group of mums, I really will need to tell you about them next time; there’s a few in particular who make me piss myself, support me and tell me to shut the fuck up regularly and they deserve a mention to be honest. Anyway, those ladies had been my first audience and what they don’t know about me after chatting intensively for a few years isn’t worth knowing…but Christiaan and I had been talking and there’s no point going to the effort of writing this then hiding it.
So I’ve opened it up. Not so that I can harvest sympathy by the way, the thought makes me feel itchy, but so that I can put life out there and show people that Instagram Life, or Facebook Life isn’t always reality – people choose the best bits to show and there are very few who genuinely have life all sewn up and perfect. It’s also, selfishly, allowing me to tell people about whats going on without having to TELL them; verbal communication can sometimes be difficult for me but the bit of my brain that lets me write seems to be unaffected and I’m able to be more honest with a blank page than I am with an expectant face.
Lastly, and because I’m a Miss World contestant at heart, I want people to understand what M.E. CAN look like. I am one example of a really complicated and mutating disorder, it looks and feels very different for a lot of people and it affects an individuals life to varying degrees. I am lucky to be able to function – a lot are bed bound, house bound and unable to communicate. M.E. continues to have one of the highest illness attributed suicide rates in young people, isolation can be a killer so if one person, young, old or immortal (Hello Jebus) reads this and realises they’re not on they’re own; it’s worth it. It’s worth showing my big swollen face, or talking about how embarrassed I get.
It’s worth it.