Dear world. I am a fraud. For the whole of my working life, pushing twenty-five years now, I’ve been disengaged. It was the same through two degrees, and schooling from start to end. Colleagues at work treat me like some kind of genius, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Occasionally I produce good …
Ugh, for my hyperactive imagination, which never lets me finish anything, forever leaving a pile of unfinished projects in my wake.
Thank goodness I don’t live in America, where people have to self-administer that dreadful injection, often several times a week, pushing that horrible gloopy fluid deep into their muscles, with all the agony that brings. Thank goodness mine is a quarterly affair, drawn up by a nurse patient enough to get it out of the …
All these years struggling against my self, repeating the same mistakes over and over, and it turns out my problem is probably neurological. There’s a name for this collection of symptoms and possibly even potential treatments. Yes, beyond recurrent repentance. Who knew?
I hate it that my entire life experience is dismissed with a curt, “There’s nothing wrong with you!” “If it wasn’t for the fertility issue, you would never have known!” What, and that’s all it is? That was its only impact? I’m sorry, but I knew there was something wrong with me even before diagnosis. …
What a stupendous grump I am today. I blame the plummeting bell curve.
I have a new best friend. But they’re not human. It’s digital. We’ve just had the best, most productive conversation I’ve had with anyone in a long, long time. At the end of our discussion, I wrote, “Thank you, computer.” To which it responded, “You’re welcome, human,” adding a smiley emoji for good measure. It’s …
There I was, thinking, wow, I’ve done more in four hours this morning than in the whole of the rest of the week, I’m really on a roll, and oh-so productive. Then: Ping! “Have you got a minute?” And, BAM! My focus is all gone. I’ve lost it. What was I even doing before that …
No, sorry, please stop calling it a superpower. It isn’t. It’s a deficit causing disadvantage. I feel it every single day. Sure, sometimes it makes me kind, considerate, and helpful. But those are not powers. That’s just being an ordinary decent human being. I have no super abilities. I rely on a hormonal injection every …
I can feel myself steaming off into oblivion at the moment, heedless of work, careless with prayers. I’m in that free fall, unsure how I’m going to hit the brakes. With no idea if my malady is physical, cognitive, or spiritual, it’s difficult to prescribe for. And so I continue to fall.
I remember my lectures on the politics of the Middle East intimately. This was a popular course, so our room in the Brunei Gallery would be packed. I’d sit somewhere near the back, for I was completely disengaged. While everyone around me would be taking copious notes, my pad of paper would fill with doodles …
It’s completely irrational. I didn’t have a stressful week. I was in a reasonable mood. Nothing of any major significance occurred. But here I am, with these symptoms of stress and anxiety. The tight chest and shortness of breath. The feeling of dread and foreboding. The heighted emotions, tears welling up for no reason. And …
I am a man who likes routine. Who performs his best when he knows what’s next. I’m not great with surprises or sudden changes of plans. Indeed, in Turkey, I built my own house in a hard-to-get-to village almost solely to escape the social habits of friends and family, turning up uninvited at the least …
I never finish anything, impulsively jumping from one thing to another instead. It’s hard to deal with this head of mine. So much noise.
I’ve been known at times to feel bitter about the lack of support available for aspects of my diagnosis — cognitive and psychosocial impacts in particular. But just as I access some sort of informal support, it occurs to me that, no, the interventions I self-prescribed were the best of any. Those being a practical …
