…huge side order of delusional.

Yet again, we are in the middle of a glorious British summer (I hope you sense the sarcasm in my words) ‘cos this summer is turning out to be anything, but glorious; unless of course you count the glorious rain.  It’s been bucketing it down for days, not continuously, but when it starts a whole days worth of rain comes at once.  Ironically, I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather myself, like I’m coming down with a cold but its not actually getting here.  I’ve also been feeling the cold, I’ve had to fight the urge to put on the heating; it’s bloody August I shouldn’t need heating.  Although, physically I’ve been feeling a little off, mentally I am in a better place than I was a couple of weeks ago.  If only I could get my mind and body to work together; on good days I’d be unstoppable but on bad days I’d probably crawl into a cave to sleep.

I need to capitalise on my good mind set; I need to somehow stop fighting against myself and somehow learn to accept my limitations, including my illnesses/diagnosis/disease.  Unfortunately, this is what I’m finding most difficult.  Somehow it is easier to accept I’m failing in some way than to believe it is because of something outwith my control (saying that I do need to take more responsibility and work at being kinder to myself).  To that end I’ve decided to embrace my diagnoses of fibromyalgia and lipoedema and try and find out as much as I can about them; find out how they affect others and learn how to manage the symptoms, if possible.  To that end I’ve been checking out other people’s blogs; there are a lot of people out there in similar positions and on one hand it makes me happy, ‘cos I’m not alone, but on the other it make me very sad; I know how hard it can be.

To some extent it is only now that I am really understanding how hard it is because I’ve been living in denial for such a long time.  I am only starting to truly understand what is meant by chronic pain; it does not relate to the intensity of the pain, but to its duration.  I thought chronic pain meant you were doubled over in agony all day, unable to move.  I had really no idea that it meant you had been living with pain for more than 12 weeks.  To that end I have been playing down my problems, just because I’ve not been living with excruciating pain every day I thought I was some sort of fraud, yet I’ve been living with pain, to a greater or lesser degree, daily for more years than I care to remember.  To be honest I think it all started when I had a cholescstectomy (gallbladder removal) in 2010.  That’s seven years I’ve felt broken.  Looking back I wish I’d never had that surgery, I feel this was the turning point in my life, when I turned from a fairly happy-go-lucky, overweight woman into a fucking, freaky, miserable, depressed old fart.  Maybe I’m being a bit dramatic here, I think it took longer than the length of the surgery to turn me into an old shrew, I think menopause in the last couple of years has only added to my problems.

Surgery was a defining moment in my life.  I remember finding it painful to move afterwards, I remember being freaked out by the scars (even though it was keyhole surgery).  I think I generally freak out about my own body anyway, I had to get my husband to take off the plasters and clean the scars ‘cos I was too chicken.  I was off work for a couple of weeks, scared to do things round the house in case it ripped up my insides.  I remember being frightened when my cats jumped on me in case they disturbed my insides.  I remember sitting up, to sleep for weeks (I still do even now to some extent) fearful of lying down ‘cos I couldn’t breathe properly.  I kept my husband at arms length for a long time over fear of pain, disturbing my insides etc.  I remember being discharged from hospital with no information, no pain killers, no dressings, nothing; is it any wonder I was fearful.  Deep down I think I wanted my Mum to look after me, but she couldn’t be there.  Not long after I think that’s when I became aware of  pain, particularly back pain, for the first time.  Initially, I thought it was as a result of my surgery and the effects would wear off.  I ignored this for a long time before realising it wasn’t going to go away.  One thing I do know is the before surgery person was very different to the post-surgery person I’ve become, I used to think anxiety, depression, chronic illness was something that happened to other people and that I was just fat.   I thought if I lost weight all my other problems would somehow magically go away; it seems I was not only just fat but I had a huge side order of delusional.



Richard Branson should be euthanised…

What a strange week it has been.  I’m on a more even keel with my husband following my rant last week.  He’s still not perfect (neither am I) but I’ve managed to offload a lot of my frustration and angst here.  No doubt things will settle for a few months before they start to build up again.  It would seem my mental distress has now morphed into physical distress as I’ve not been feeling too well, not really poorly, just a bit under the weather.  I think my body is rebelling against me.  You see I’ve had a lot of abdominal discomfort, feeling bloated and full of trapped wind.  I’ve also been feeling as if I’m coming down with something, all cold and achy.  Now I’m not sure if this has to do with fibromyalgia, lipoedema or poor nutrition, all I know is I’ve been feeling really off this week and I can’t seem to shift this bloated feeling despite drinking hot lemon, ginger, ACV and honey.  Added to this I’ve got some major paranoia about cancer going round in my head (due to the fact I’m a medical secretary in the oncology department of a large hospital) and all day I’m typing letters about bloated abdomens, ascites, discomfort etc. being symptoms of some cancers.  (I need to get a new job were the focus is less doom-laden).  Added to this is the constant feeling that I’ve failed in some way, failed because I am unable to control my desires when it comes to food; failed because I am unable to control my physical being through exercise.

I realise one of my main problems is my failure to accept I may have one or two debilitating conditions, which I am not responsible for or able to control; lipoedema and fibromyalgia.  Somehow, despite diagnosis, I do not feel I have accepted these conditions.  Is it because since diagnosis I’ve been left high and dry to manage them without much input from the medical profession?  I was under the lymphoedema   service for my lipoedema but was discharged recently because there is nothing more they can do for me; I can get my compression stockings on prescription from my GP.  I’m told my lipoedema exists, but the problems I experience from it are  no longer a priority for them, yet they have been the only ones who have acknowledged it.  My GP hasn’t, and doesn’t seem to want to understand.  Likewise, I was referred to a rheumatologist who diagnosed fibromyalgia and was summarily discharged back to my GP, with no care plan, advice or anything, merely the ability to request pain medication as and when required.  Is it any wonder I’m confused, depressed and defeated.  I am expected to deal with these conditions without any formal medical training and without any input from the medical profession.  All I have at my disposal is information gleaned off the the internet or from books.  Is it any wonder I am driving myself mad trying to figure the best way to manage my condition when I don’t know the first thing about it, or how to manage it.  I feel let down by the NHS and its practitioners, whose salaries I contribute to.

Working in the NHS I see first hand how dysfunctional it is.  Don’t get me wrong there are a lot a good people working really hard to provide a good service, the problem is there are too many numpties and the focus of the NHS is all wrong.  For a long time the NHS has been hijacked by pharmaceutical companies and big business who have moved it from being a “comprehensive range of services, universal and free at the point of delivery for ordinary residents in the UK”; running it down, stripping it of all its assets, so it can be  sold off for peanuts.  There are too many managers in the NHS who have no understanding of health care and who are there, purely to feather their own nests, financially or politically.  What is apparent is how stupid and near sighted they are, because when the NHS is sold off to private enterprise their jobs will be the first to go, because they are fucking shite at what they do! Anyone with a bit of nous will see them for what they are; a bunch of spivs, employed to do the dirty work for those who don’t want to get their hands dirty, i.e. the elite.  The other problem I’ve seen, now I don’t know if this is particular to Birmingham or it is more widespread, but the incestuousness nature of the NHS, the sheer volume of nepotism that goes on, beggars belief.  The amount to people who have risen through the ranks in a very short space of time and without qualification or experience is unbelievable.  It’s no wonder money is draining out of the NHS, there is no-one in a true leadership position, there are too many jumped up little hitlers, who know fuck all, running the show.

Sometimes I welcome the idea of private ownership only to see the looks on those fucking idiots faces when they get shown the door.  I do however, believe in the NHS, healthcare is not something that should be bought and sold, fundamental healthcare should be a human right.  Equally, I think we need to be clearer on what type of free healthcare we nee; it should not be there to put right what went wrong in private healthcare, like botched up plastic surgery.  Also, I don’t think it should offer fertility treatment, there are already too many people in the world, there must be a reason why some people are unable to reproduce spontaneously, and maybe there is a reason we shouldn’t encourage them (perhaps they produce more fuckwits!!).  I also think we need to take a more holistic approach to healthcare, starting with nutrition.  I also think its about time the food industry were made to clean up their act; I sometimes think they are in league with the pharmaceutical industry, one to get us sick and the other to provide the (so-called) cure.  It seems us normal folk are paying over the odds for everything; we’re paying good money for shit food, good money for dodgy pharmaceuticals, good money to the state for services that sub-standard, verging on shit.  Bloody-hell, I could go on.  Basically, all I want is a healthcare system that when you’re ill, or struggling, there is someone willing and able to help.  Where the necessary time is made available to discuss related issues and it is not limited to a 10 minute slot where you can only discuss one topic, then be shown the door.  A healthcare system which listens rather than just dispenses quick remedies per an online guidebook, I could get that information from Google.  There are some things in life that can’t be boiled down to cost efficiencies and healthcare is just one of those things.  Healthcare should, under no circumstances,  be commodified and those who are hungry to do so, like Richard Branson, should be euthanised…



Too scared to read this over…

I’m feeling a bit defeated by my life in general at the moment.  Everything feels out of control; or should I say out of ‘my’ control.  I am getting very little pleasure from my life just now, everything feels a bit of a struggle; health, job, relationship, home, family, friends etc.  All of it is in a bit of a mess and I don’t know how to fix any of it and I’m all out of options.  I’m not as physically active or as healthy as I’d like to be, whether its the lipoedema or fibromyalgia slowing me down; I don’t know.  All I know is I am totally alone with all my shit, I have no friends, my family are spread out or estranged  and my husband is so wrapped up in his own neurosis I can’t get any help from him.  I feel totally conflicted in every aspect of my life.  I hate my job but can’t think of what else I’d like to do; I want to be everything and nothing.  The house is getting me down, it needs stuff doing to it, not necessarily the big stuff just the little everyday tidying and cleaning but I just can’t be bothered.  I’ve been doing it for years, cleaning, hoovering etc. but its like a relentless bogeyman; keeps coming back, it never fucking ends.  I can’t even write today as my mind is full of stuff.  I’m unhappy, unfulfilled, unloved, undeserving, under-appreciated, unworthy.  I’m sick of pretending, sick of saying the right thing, sick of being understanding, sick of putting others before me, sick of people taking the piss, sick of fucking everything and everyone…

I am 52 years old and I don’t know if I have ever really been in love, or have ever felt truly loved.  I’ve been infatuated, besotted, been in love with the idea of being in love but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.  I tell my husband I love him but I don’t know anymore if that is true.  I don’t know if it ever has been.  We’ve been together for 15 years; we started out as friends and it sort of developed.  I am jealous when I hear others talk about their husbands being ‘the love of their life’, I think I always wanted that but somehow it doesn’t seem to have materialised.   My husband tells me he loves me, he tells me I’m his best (and only) friend, the only person in the world who understands him; but is he all that for me.  There is no doubt he is my best friend, but only because there is no competition, since moving to Birmingham 20 years ago I’ve never really found a group of friends.  I only see one other person and that is usually 2-3 times a year.  Does he understand me; sometimes yes. Does he understand what I want; maybe.  Does he understand what I need; no, fuck NO!!!  I want to feel special, I want to feel loved, I want his undivided attention, I want him to know why I’m upset, I want him to be the strong one every now and then.  I want him to take care of ME! I want him to take an interest in my life, my desires, my needs.  I want him to do things  for me, things he finds difficult, because he knows how much pleasure they will give me.  I want him to look at me, properly and see the woman beneath the fat, beneath the hard, shouty exterior, beneath the aches and pains, beneath the pretence and  realise I am just a scared. little girl.  Scared to love him anymore while he still holds me at arms length because I’m scared of getting hurt, scared of giving anymore until I get something in return.  Something that takes him out of his comfort zone, something that proves to me he is scared to but he is willing to push through the fear because together we can be strong.  Fuck sake, I’m starting to sound like a romantic novel….

Basically, I want him to love me how I want to be loved…without compromise, without fear, without shame, without his fucking anxieties getting the better of him.  I want him to realise that sometimes he has to put the effort in, sometimes even though he doesn’t feel good, happy, or in the mood… he just has to fucking do it.  Do you realise in 15 years of being together he has never booked a table to take me for a meal, dressed up for the hell of it, surprised me with a weekend away, bought me a ridiculously expensive or infantile gift, surprised me at work by turning up to take me to lunch, brought me breakfast in bed, offered me a foot rub or back massage for the sheer hell of it.  I could go on but in all honesty I don’t think it would make any difference.  I have said all this to him in the past and it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.  Occasionally I shout, scream, cry, go quiet and eventually let it go, move on and start another day until I feel worn down by my neglect again.  I know I am not the most beautiful woman in the world, nor am I the most loving and I don’t think I automatically deserve these things just for being, but every day I try really hard, to be patient and understanding of his anxieties, his OCD, his agoraphobia; I take care of him by making sure he eats well, has clean clothes and a comfortable house.  I do not make excessive monetary or DIY demands; I just want a little bit of attention.  I want to know that he loves me and is willing to show it without having to ‘take a bullet for me’.

What a Bastard!

Its been a wee while since I last wrote.  I was away in London at the weekend for a family get together, which was nice, although I always find being away from home a very anxious and tiring experience.  I also get anxious about leaving our cats to fend for themselves.  I know they will be OK for 1-2 nights as they’ve got a cat flap and can come and go as they please; we also fill electronic feeders so they’ve also got enough food to cover a couple of days.  I just worry about them and I don’t really relax until I’ve taken a roll call when I get back.

Thankfully we both had booked annual leave days the Friday before and the Monday after so we could get organised before leaving and chill out a little when we got back.  I’d managed to get a good deal on tickets as I’d booked them some time ago; I’d also booked an overnight stay in an hotel near Euston station.  We were up early on the Saturday to catch our 08:50 train, we got to the station quite early only to find out our train had been cancelled.  We didn’t worry too much as the next one was only 20 minutes later so it wouldn’t delay us too much.  Unfortunately however, the seats I’d booked were no longer ours and the train was packed; we did however manage to find seats.  The plan was to meet Dave’s parents at Euston and then go onto the Cutty Sark where we were meeting the rest of his family.  It looked like a nice day but by the time we got to Greenwich it was pissing down.  It was nice to see everyone and catch up but there was a lot of walking and standing around; it was quite tough on my poor wee feet and legs even though I had my compression stockings and Fitflops on.  By the time we got back to our hotel at around 9:00pm, I could no longer walk.  Getting up in the middle of the night to visit the bathroom was a nightmare ‘cos my feet were so painful; I know they could have been a lot worse if I’d had other shoes on, thank gawd for small mercy’s.

In the morning I’d recovered quite a bit but I was not up for hiking, thankfully we were heading home on the 11:50 train.  When we got home and opened the front door the most horrendous smell slapped us in the face; we thought there would be a mountain of poo in the cat trays, but they seemed OK.  We soon realised that one of the automatic feeders had not worked and all the food we’d left out had gone rotten in the heat and our poor little babies were starving.  We fed them quickly, and thankfully they forgave us eventually, after some more feeds.  I’m now on the lookout for new automatic feeders.

One thing I notice when I’m away from home is the food I eat tends to be a bit shit.  I  don’t always have time to hunt down the best options and therefore end up eating whats available, i.e. sandwiches and cake washed down by a lot of coffee.  Also, I think there is something in my head which makes me think I’m on ‘holiday’ therefore, the normal eating rules don’t apply.  I find myself wanting things I’m not usually bothered about, like crisps and biscuits.  However, none of this helps with how I was feeling physically on the Sunday morning.  I felt I’d been on a bender; I felt hungover.  All the cells in my body felt jangly and exhausted.  Also, I don’t think I drink enough water when I’m away and I think this has an effect on my cells.


Brunch; tuna baguette and latte…

The other thing that seems to happen when I eat badly is I become addicted to more of the same.  When I got off the train at Birmingham, New Street I headed for Marks & Spencer to pick up something easy and quick for dinner (chicken tikka, rice and naan’), but I also felt compelled to buy more crips and biscuits; not just a couple but enough to last a few days.  Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.  I wonder sometimes if I will ever stop this destructive behaviour before I suffer a life changing heart attack, or similar.  All I can do is each day is try to do better.  Sometimes I wonder whether I have any control over how I look and feel anyway, maybe I am and feel exactly what as I am intended.  What a Bastard!!


I think the best thing to do is move on, no point dwelling it the past.  I had taken a quick look at my last post and realised I was in a bit of a dark place then; thankfully things are not quite so dark now.  Its not all rosy in the garden though.

I’ve been trying to eat better, cut down on some of the rubbish.  I find it difficult to be organised, especially in the morning, particularly on work days.  I’ve got into the habit of taking spelt toast with peanut butter to eat later.  Its easy to prepare and easy to transport.  However, the last couple of days I’m not sure if its the toast, peanut butter, the coconut latte or my hot lemon drink but something has given me severe upper right flank pain radiating to my back.  Stupidly I looked on google and I’m now convinced I’ve got pancreatitis.  Despite what you may think that’s a lot better than what I thought it initially was – the big C.  Actually, in all honesty I think I suffer, as many do, with health anxiety and I think this is heightened by my job as a medical secretary.  In every specialty I’ve worked I recognise myself as having some of the symptoms of chronic disease.  I’ve been working in oncology recently and typing those letters has got me all in a cancer-fluster.  It would seem women of a certain age (i.e. my age and peri-, post- or menopausal) who develop symptoms of bloating, stomach distension, abdominal pain, intermittent bleeding etc. are automatically sent to the gynaecologists for further investigation.  Biopsies follow, and before long they are diagnosed with some form cancer even though they are well, and all they had was a little polyp and a healthy lifestyle.  Then its chemo or radiotherapy, or both and their symptoms, which were bugging them a little, become full-on cancer treating sickness.

I’m no medical professional but I do wonder whether the drug companies and companies with vested interest in health care are screwing us over.  I believe the medical profession and the public are being held to ransom by the drug companies.  Doctors are told how, when and what to treat within NICE guidelines (calling them NICE is the biggest irony) and the solution always seems to be drug-related and if they can’t cure it they’ll cut it out with surgery.  There never seems to be a holistic solution, something which takes into account the person, their choices, lifestyle, background etc.  Because of my struggle with weight, depression and recently diagnosed ailments of lipoedema and fibromyalgia, I have become increasingly interested in finding solutions which are more natural, herbal and organic.  Unfortunately, there is a lot of information on the internet, some good, some bad and some downright crazy.  Its very difficult sifting through it all trying to find the thing (s) that work for you.

The internet is were I found the idea of hot lemon drink with ACV, ginger and honey along with coconut oil pulling, LCHF and a number of other things.  I’ve given them all a go, but I’m not convinced of their benefits for me.  Is it because I’ve not tried them long enough or is it because I still continue with all the other rubbish.  Do I need to become a lettuce eating, nut chewing, no meat, no dairy, no chocolate only vegetables and fruit-eating monster.  Would that cure me of all my ills, will it prevent me from getting or having cancer, will it ease my symptoms from lipoedema and fibromyalgia?  Have I got the will power and stamina to really, truly try it out?  Do I have lipoedema and fibromyalgia?  Are these conditions real or are they invented to lessen the mental suffering of people like me who are shit at dieting?  As each day goes by it becomes more and more difficult to make any sense of anything, fake news and bullshit seem to be the order of the day, so what is real, what is fake?  I thought I was fairly clever but I don’t know if I’d recognise bullshit anymore.  Maybe hot lemon and ACV is bullshit!

There’d be mayhem!!

Fucking hell.  I’m going down and I can’t stop it.  I feel exhausted, tearful, angry.  I’m out of control; the more I try, the more I feel everything getting further away.  I’m all alone in this big, shitty world.  I feel the dark thoughts descend and the bile rise up.  I am angry; disappointed that no-one can see me struggle.  No-one can see how desperate I have become.  But how can they.  I’ve mastered the art of pretence.  I also think I’ve mastered the art of turning people off, even though I’ve never tried to.  I feel I send out a vibe of desperation which everyone ignores, ‘cos no-one really wants to get involved.  It’s too time-consuming, too messy, not their problem.  People only want to be around happy, fun people; they don’t have time for other people’s depression, ‘cos they’re just a heartbeat away from their own.  The truth is everyone is alone in this shitty world, everyone is desperate and everyone has mastered the art of pretence.  God forbid their mask of happiness should fall and we should see behind the pretence.  There’d be mayhem!!

I envision a hundred million people out there, typing away on blogs, feeling the same as me.  Desperate for a connection, desperate for someone to notice.  But while we live in a world with Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Twitter and a multitude of other distracting social media platforms and apps we will never re-connect in the real world as human beings who need each other, and who need to be noticed.  In the meantime we will continue to type, telling our sad little stories of our sad lonely existences, peppered with recipe ideas or dieting tips with the odd photo of our cats and dogs.  All the while hoping that someone, somewhere reads it and understands, hoping against hope they will reach out and connect with us through some shared emotion, disease or love of the same thing.  Strange thing is, I can’t connect with my husband, who sits upstairs, unless its via email or messaging.  I started this blog at his suggestion; he thought it would be good for me to write down my ideas and thoughts about political and world affairs.  I started it with that idea in mind, but it has sort of morphed into a whinging journal, an emotional catharsis; a platform to share my pain with the world and to help him (my husband) understand my feelings of desperation (that’s if he continues to read it).  When we talk face-to-face we end up fighting, neither of us listening properly, not really understanding what is required from the other; me desperate for his attention, him desperate for mine.  Both of us too exhausted, caught up in our own world of depression to really see the other.  I’m sure there are millions of couples out there in the same position.  I sometimes envy people with children ‘cos they’re too distracted by providing and caring for their kids they probably don’t have time to dwell on their own inadequacies as a person.

Anyway, now that I’ve got that off my chest I’m feeling better; here’s a photo of my cat, Popi.  She’s been a bit under the weather recently, but a trip to the vet and a jab of antibiotics and pain killer, hopefully she’ll be back to normal soon.


I’m an arse…

What an arse I am.  I seem to shoot myself in the foot all the time.  I’ve been trying (half my life) to lose weight and eat healthier, not just to look better but also to feel better.  I try new ideas, plans etc. but it is my own short term desires which fuck me up.  How is that?  What kind of stupid death wish, shit life do I think I deserve?  Not a day goes by without something or someone making me feel shit (before you all start shouting, I know, no-one else can make me do anything, it is my own fucking brain screwing with me), and how I deal with is to make myself feel better with food or stuff.  Sometimes, something or someone doesn’t even have to do anything its just my fucking brain telling me I deserve this or that.  Take yesterday…

I was feeling a bit tired and run down from the week and decided to take Friday as a day off to recuperate.  I still had to get up early as my husband has to help me put on my adorable compression stockings and help fasten my bra (I’ve got a dodgy shoulder).  I had to pick up a parcel from the post-office so just faffed around until after 9:00am to let the traffic die down.  I also needed to pick up a few things from the shops.  Whilst waiting for 9:00 I had a hot lemon, ACV, ginger and honey drink (recently I’ve been trying to have this in the morning as I’ve heard its good for you); I was feeling relatively righteous.  9:00am came and I headed of out; I would have breakfast/lunch on my return.  I picked up my parcel and headed to Asda, I needed some fruit juice and I wanted to look for a cheap bread bin.

Once at Asda I had a quick look round the ladies clothes (as always) and managed to pick up a nice black and white stripey T-shirt, a bargain at £8.  The bread bin was OK, but I wasn’t too keen so I left it and went back to look for juice.  I also picked up some butter as I was planning to bake a banana cake with the banana’s that were rotting on my counter back at home.  Then I thought, “what can I have for breakfast”?  That’s when my mind went into overdrive…“toast, bacon, eggs, muffins, bagels…”.  It was like I’d been taken over by someone else; I was having a day off so it seemed only fair this day off extended to what I was eating…therefore I didn’t have to eat nutritionally, sensible food I could have whatever my heart desired.  My brain ran through my list of favourites in a millisecond and settled on bread products…I absolutely love bread, but what kind? Baguette, crusty white loaf, bagels… I’d decided I’d have Boursin with black pepper on a crusty baguette and headed to the cheese aisle, but horror of horrors, there was no Boursin.  Again, my brain ran through list of favourites but this time nothing stood out…so I thought “head for the bread aisle, something with jump out at you”.

At the bread aisle I just couldn’t think, everything looked appealing, so I thought “what have I not had in ages”?  Scottish plain bread!  Unfortunately, they don’t have any in Asda but they do have a close substitute, an Irish Batch.  That would do just the job; toasted with lashings of butter and bovril or as a sandwich with lashings of butter, cheese, bovril and garlic salt  (I opted for the sandwich).  Now this is when my brain well and truly fucked me over…“if you’re having this, you may as well have some of your favourite Aero chocolate” – not the minty or orange one, just the chocolate one, its like gold dust these days.  You’re right, I said and off I went to the chocolate aisle.  Now, I could have picked up one big bar and that would have been a bit naughty, but no, I picked up two.  What was my fucking brain thinking…or had it given up thinking entirely.  Was there another person living inside of me controlling my brain?  I don’t know anymore…all I know is I got home and made a cheese, bovril and garlic salt sandwich (it was delicious) and washed it down with a milky coffee and half a bar of Aero.

About an hour later the backlash started, my body was punishing me and my feeble  brain.  The aches and pains, the skin crawling sensation, restless legs, every molecule of my being felt shoogly, I felt headachey, my muscles ached; I felt ruddy awful.  I ended up having to lie down, but even then I still felt like shit.  The rest of the day was a washout, it would take a couple of hours and a couple of pain killers to recover.    This is what happens when I do not keep control of my brain and remind myself that my lipoedema and fibromyalgia are real and the consequences of eating without thinking are debilitating.  Was it worth it.  NO! Will I do it again? probably…YES.  That’s why I am an arse!!