So, as some of you know I ended up in hospital on May 21st. I will finally be leaving this Sunday, June 24th. While it was a culmination of things, which I will unpack, it started with an infection.
I had lost my job Aug 2017 and Oct 2017 suffered a mental relapse that saw me institutionalized for almost three weeks. I lost my job because I have severe skin infections; nasty, pus-filled, smelly infections, and the infections raised my sugar levels (I am diabetic) so I was in hospital for a week. After getting sugars from 28 down to 10, they continued to dip and dropped between 4 and 1, often at work. Work did not like me changing my shifted break times to eat and gave me the boot.
This bumped me down into a pit. I fell, hard, and staggered to my feet 14 days later with my parents telling me to pack for hospital or they would call the police and I would not have a choice.
I went. I healed, physically, but mentally was fragile. Was institutionalized and then kicked out when funds ran dry. I stopped taking my psych meds- removing the temptation to OD - and sought out a psychologist. She performed magic and I survived.
I got into 2018. I did not murder my gambling addicted parents who moan about no money for bread and in the same breath leave us all at 2/3am and head to their tinkly place of worship and lights. I did not murder my rude assholeic sister who doesn't try to understand depression, anxiety, bipolar, panic attacks, social phobia but posts false "motivational" status updates within seconds of cursing you for eating a sandwich cos "the cheese was for sandwiches...of those of us who work." I did not murder my brother who would rather sneer the first thing that enters his mind than stop and think if it could hurt who he is talking to. I killed nobody, and silently vowed to be better, do better in 2018. I would get a job and a guy and marry, get a place and have 2.4 kids all while sailing through my 31 birthday surrounded by loving friends and family.
Nope. I applied hourly for jobs but received only two callbacks. I was the wrong gender, the wrong colour, too old, too young, too skilled and not skilled enough.
Meanwhile, on the home front, I was daily under fire. Had I found a job? Had I tried applying here? My medication is so expensive, but I suppose 'we' must pay it or you will have another "nervous breakdown". Why has nobody called? Are you even looking for a job? You are lazy. You sit and do nothing all day and all night and you smell bad. You gross us out. You are fat and stupid and ugly and lazy. If you were so clever you would have work by now.
If not for the undeserving love of
kiwi-damnation and
GenevieveL and
HugQueen I would have killed myself. If not for the selflessness and generosity of all who donated to Sammy's original GoFundMe in Dec, I would have nothing. If not for the literature community on DA I would have died a long time ago.
You allow me to express what is killing me inside in a healthy way. You tolerate my screaming and calm me when I am beside myself. You donate the money from your pockets and would the food from your table and the shirts off your backs if I lived close enough for you to do so. I survived into March 2018 when I received 'the call'.
I was interviewed on Mon March 5th and hired to start Tues March 6th. I learned all about PCs and technology and what I did not know I made it my mission to find out. I befriended co-workers and suppliers, and clients complimented me that I was "much better than the other girl who was here". I answered phones, made calls, send emails, ordered things, requested and sent quotes and generally organised and filed my way into a good space. For once, I had work that I loved. Work that always challenged just enough but once the initial discovery happened it became second nature and routine. I did not dread ever waking...I enjoyed waking up at 7:15 am each Mon-Fri. I knew tiny, teeny, sproutlings of joy. I looked forward to arriving at the office and did not sit counting the hours until I could go home.
Whats more, March brought in an influx of people wishing to do music lessons with me, so my Saturdays quickly filled, then my Sundays. I was sleeping unaided because I was tired, not faking it to get others to stop hurting me and leave me alone.
But the caustic, chiding comments continued, and the skin infections worsened. My overly large bladder picked up several bugs back in Feb and did not get better. I spend several Saturdays at my doctor and came away each time with 3-5 different antibiotics to try...nothing killed those bugs.
My burning bladder raised my sugars with its infection, but I soldiered on - it was a three month trial and I needed this job. I needed to prove to my family that I was not worthless, pathetic, lazy, broken, used, torn, tattered and too tormented to be refurbished. I carried on through a roll of loo paper at work every two days. I carried on through several hundred liters of water drunk to try flush my system. I carried on through sugar levels hitting low 20's again then plummeting to below 4.
My sugars lowered my immune system, and I caught every infection handed out by the people residing with me and those I interacted with on the way to and from work, and at work. I caught what we thought was Pink Eye and my eyes burned and became demonically red. They leaked and my sinuses felt pity and bunged my nose.
But, I was earning money and could pay some bills, my own insurance and for my own meds. R3k odd in March as it was not a full month then R4950 in April as it was...I possibly sold myself short and pitched my salary too low, but it was something and I could buy a cool drink or DA points or a spare phone...and my insurance and meds etc. More music students joined, some left. It balanced out and I met new, interesting people.
May dawned. I chose to invite my closest friend, her family, and our closest family friend to celebrate with me and my kin. My friend and her family came. My family slept or watched Netflix off my account. We ate dinner only just on time because the little child needed to eat before bed. Several far away friends wished me on FBook...family and family friends. My church friends lost the ability to speak or type or care that their rendering of myself as invisible, unwanted and not worth it only carved craters deeper into the junk buried in my deepest depths that so few know exist.
Monday May 21st, work day, day after birthday. I packed up cupcakes, squeezed ointment into burning eyes and headed to work. Knowing how I felt, physically, I told my mom I would get my bosses permission to call my doctor and go see her as my eyes were not better. My bladder was still infected. My sugar had tested 26 that morning. She moaned that I was jeopardizing my job.
Boss liked the cupcakes and understood why I needed to make the appointment...his and his kid's health were important too. My doctor looked at me and told me she was admitting me to hospital for IV meds as I was so infected they could not isolate one bug and so she did not know what antibiotic to try.
I messaged those who needed to know. I packed, methodically, worried out of my mind that my boss would see this as a betrayal of his trust - I had given my word that my health would not affect my work...and after missing the Wed and Thurs the week before I was now heading to hospital for an unknown time. Who would answer the phones and calm down the clients and generate quotes and tactfully, but politely, explain to the irate that their inbox is full so they must please delete some emails and then new ones will be able to send and receive.
Monday passed. My knuckles, calves, wrists, feet, ankles and toes which had been weak and painful for ages grew worse. My hands clenched and spasmed, leaving me with 4/10 working fingers. My legs, both of them, from hip to toe cramped as if muscle wanted to snap bones. I worried over my hands, for I am a writer. I worried over my job, for once more I had failed. I hurt that only one church friend visited me voluntarily, the other popping in on the way to see her mom...in case I noticed her and wondered why she did not greet.
The doctors sorted the infections with 4 different antibiotics...combined with my previous courses I had now had 12 different ones I had tried in the space of 6 weeks. My family either did not ask how I was, or they did but added a string...how are you? You would be fine if you didn't let your sugars go so high...how you? I am feeling like death cos xyz and abc and jkl is wrong with me.
I was dying, inside. I had nobody to visit me when I was scared I would lose my job. Scared my hands would become petrified and decay leaving me a writer no more. Nobody who gave even half a damn was close enough to pop in, and those close enough didn't give a shit. I broke. My heart burned and tears tore furrows through skin they had not watered in years and I lay there wanting to die. Knowing I couldn't only because I was in hospital and there was no means.
My legs and hands continued cramping and spasming and the poor physio mumbled out loud in shock that "she is carrying so much tension she is ready to explode". I could not hold it in, and so I vented, here, to you, my DA, and shared that on Fbook for those ex-DAs who needed to see.
My mom became upset because of...I dont know. I spoke no lies. But I must apologise? No. I wrote another stating I would not apologise for no reason. Not this time. Not anymore. I wrote and my hand cramped and I feared and I burned where my heart should have been because my family were proving that they were the selfish, ungrateful asshats they proclaimed me to be.
EDIT: 2 June 2018 My dad visited me today...told me he didn't want to argue, but he was disappointed I had referred to the family environment as toxic. Said I tend to think I am always right. That I was often wrong. That if I posted one more hurtful or mean thing about the family online he would take the laptop he had just brought through away. That I need to get my head right, get better and get home. That he didn't listen to 99% of the voice notes I sent him...but I spoke so softly he could hardly hear anyway so it didn't matter.
As he left he said he could see I was putting up walls again because I obviously thought I was in the right. As the door swung closed and his steps faded I whispered to the empty room: No, I am putting up walls because what you said hurt me.
I have some other poems written, but will hold off posting on the off chance they are checking my DA.
A friend I've known only about 2 months visited this morning...when he left I felt...lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. After my dad left I cried, out loud, unable to breathe, for five min and felt as if a heavy cloak had been draped over me.
And now we come to the end. The hospital gave way to a psych facility because I am fragile and unstable and mostly immobile with tense, cramped, spasming muscles that try tear my bones out and snap them daily.
I do not know if I still have a job. I do know my home environment is too toxic to return to and, if I did, it would kill me within a short space of time.
EDIT: 20 June 2018 My boss called me last night...he wants me to return! I still have a job, even if it's in some smaller capacity at first until I 'get well' again. It's looking like I will need thousands of Rands for painkillers, because they do not go on chronic, and hundreds for psych meds that insurance probably will not cover ('cos they are dicks like that). Thus, I still need funds...but I will at least have a salary as a backup hopefully from July again. Hope. I am hoping...and it might just bite me in the ass but hey, why not give it one last try.
So, now, the begging.
I need cash. I need it for:
Rent and deposit, on a place where my family cannot verbally or emotionally abuse me anymore.
Furniture, electricity, appliances, water.
Groceries, so I do not starve. Toiletries so I do not stink.
New desktop, as mine might not survive a move.
Wi-Fi and internet.
A printer.
Booking and writing my learners and drivers licenses.
Getting a car, or using Uber in the meantime to get to places.
Paying all my doctors what I owe them. And being able to keep ahead of bills and a good credit record.
Clothing to wear, to work and casually at home. Jammies. Slippers. An extra large mug and some tea.
One luxury item: DA, so that I am not alone and forgotten.
One wish: WoW, so that I can unwind and clear my mind of worries.
I know that money alone will not fix the issues. I know I need to work at and on things and that it is a constant battle and process. I do not believe, even if I found millions, that it will solve everything. It is a step, a beginning, a platform.
I know many of you are not well off and cannot help. I understand. I 200% understand. Your kind words and thoughts are sufficient. I do not say this to pacify you, I say it because it is the truth.
On my GoFundMe the total is the dollar equivalent of a year's worth of average rent, groceries and internet. It is a lot, I know, and I do not expect to raise it all. Anything and everything helps, though, and is a step forward...a platform to stand on...a life preserver in a rough ocean. I am running out of options and time.
www.gofundme.com/independence-…I can earn it! I proofread/format/edit ( www.preader.weebly.com ). I teach music ( www.musicallymad.weebly.com ). I teach English ( www.engteaching.weebly.com ). I sell things I paint ( www.paintedlinen.weebly.com ) and I sell a book I wrote (search Lulu.com or Amazon.com for "Fighting Darkness" by 'Joanne Bolton') in both eBook and Paperback.
I am trying to not beg. To be proactive. I am offering services. I am meeting with a social worker to find my country's version of a half-way house. I am taking my meds and doing my physio and trying to not worry I will never write the same again or walk more than a few steps or be loved or remembered or anything other than invisible and a thorn in everyone's side.
EDIT: 20 June 2018 The social worker told my psychiatrist I was too intelligent for her to help me...i.e. I do not have an intellectual disability so she can do nothing. My psychiatrist is now organising things on his own and I filled out forms for something we have called ComCare, which is a group home program for psychiatric patients. So, possible hope.
I cannot do it alone. I cannot do it with three kind souls giving when they themselves have next to nothing. I am trying, but I cannot do it alone. I need help. I need people, as much as I hate to admit it.
Mostly I need a huge hug and kind words, but finances help too.