- Post 68: Beautiful Kath
- Post 69: Alice and Dom and bizarre coincidences
- Post 70:Lunch with the girls
- Post 71: Tiny Lily Dabbous and it being a 'small' ...
- Post 72: Friends take up the slack
- Post 73: Getting by alone
- Post 74: My Sister is unwell
- Post 75:Mocking the week and the Ryder cup
- Post 76: Depression of the stroke survivor
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25 Sep 2008
Post 76: Depression of the stroke survivor
It has been two years, 8 months, twenty four days and this morning since my stroke and I wish I could report that everything was just grand, well it's not, I'm afraid, I still feel like a poor imitation of a real person, exhausted, insecure, pale, drawn and I can see no way out of this for the forseeable future. I'm very against suicide because it would not be fair on the legions of people who have worked so hard to bring me back from the brink of death. I used to take pride in parts of myself, my appearance and some of my achievements. It's so difficult to take pride in anything nowadays. I look and feel like s**t, the roof over my head no longer belongs to me and only exists due to extreme good fortune and the Herculean efforts of my brother renovating and adapting the place, the incredible wheelchair I sit in is so far outside of my means that it had to be bought with the generous donations from people who have raised such a staggering amount of money for me. The same is true of much of the stuff in my house, almost all of which I feel unworthy of. I suppose that is the thing I have to be proud of,the strength and resolve of my friends and family. It must be as difficult to read this as it is for me to write it. Changing the subject but following the theme, the community Psychologist suggested to me that a way out of this isolation would maybe be to move to some sheltered accommodation a bit nearer places I could conceivably work. I could hardly believe I was hearing this. Moving here in the first place was one of the hardest, most terrifying things I've ever had to do. There is simply no way I could ever conceive, little afford to do it again. For starters, until the fog of my fatigue begins to lift, it just seems to get worse at the moment the prospect of using what is left of my brain is not a realistic one. To be able to deal with the rigours of what I used to be used to you have to be alert at all times (well most of them) bring energy, enthusiasm, charisma and charm (arguable I could ever do this!) to situations, which I certainly can't do these days and use a computer.
You might think this blog is evidence I can use a computer, I beg to differ. Writing this over a period of hours typing with one finger is simply not acceptable and wouldn't be to anyone. Anyone still reading is obviously a glutton for punishment, but I stand by the depressing content, I am slightly ashamed of being this unhappy.