It’s around this time of year when my health seems to take a turn for the worse. From September to January my body just seems to get weaker and weaker, and I find myself having to fight one hundred billion times harder just to get out of bed in the morning.
The past few weeks have been tres oxymoron-y. It was supposed to be The Beginning. I was in Beauvais searching for a place to live, and a wee jobby that would give me some sort of income to support my dirty secret habit of shopping. (Coincidentally I spent my 300 euros meant for a deposit on an apartment on clothes and shoes. Naughty Princesse). But then September rolled around and I was struck down with crippling pain and a vague realisation that my health was in decline. Again.
Took a plane yesterday back home, where the rude little girl who sat in front of me insisted on twisting her head around and staring at my fecked up face for the entire journey from Paris to Glasgow. By the time I got off the plane I felt like shooting myself. Luckily, the lovely Mr and Mrs Ecossais were waiting for me in Arrivals, to avoid any Throwing Oneself In Front Of A Bus episodes.
The Drugs Don’t Work, They Just Make You Worse
You see, it turns out that I have made an anti-body against Infliximab; the ingenious drug that I started a few months ago which had a dramatic effect for the first ten days before everything became much, much worse. Would you believe it? I suppose I tempted fate by allowing myself to believe that it might just be the end of my difficulties. What a fecking eejit I was.
My body has really let me down. It does everything wrong. The fact that my own immune system is attacking itself is an indication that it’s effed up, but the fact that it creates bloody anti-bodies to certain substances that are supposed to save my health once and for all just drives me insane. Why, for one time in my life, can’t my body just do the right thing?
When God made me, he was obviously having an off day. Maybe he’d been out on the raj the night before, had a severe hangover and didn’t take his hair o’ the dug.
Anyway, enough complaining. I’m sure you didn’t come here to read about my dire loss of hope or my fierce and overwhelming sadness. No, I’m sure you probably arrived here because you like the pinkness of the layout, or perhaps you wanted to read some hideously embarrassing and cringey anecdote that make regular appearances here. Well you can read that here.
And here’s a laugh for you; I’m writing a novel (a novel!)! Seeing as I’m an unemployed sick person with hideous disfiguring lesions that scare small children, I figured what better hobby than one that means I don’t have to leave the safety of my very own bed? So, although I don’t expect I’ll actually ever get a novel finished (maybe not even the first chapter) because I have the attention span of a goldfish, I thought it would keep me busy. So I’m writing a book for the laugh.