It all started when I woke up one morning and it hurt to pee.
Many females are familiar with the uncomfortable sensation, especially if you are one of the lucky ladies such as myself with UTI’s frequently occurring a few times a year (ouch), even more so, if you find them problematic to shift.
Hence, I gave a vocal sigh, started working out in my head the impossibility of how I could fit myself in to see the doctor around my busy schedule, and carried on with my day, little of knowing there was more displeasing incidents to follow. After a busy morning and afternoon running back and fourth from my desk to the Loo’s at work, 6pm finally came around and I kept up out of my seat eager to get in to my car and get home to rest. Silly me decided – that in the circumstance of which I longed to be in my bed – to make the practical decision to also run down the stairs, which the day in the midst of my decending gallop was made more entertaining by my iPhone – item not insured – joining in with the fun and also leaping out of my hand, landing a rather impressive bellyflop on the marble steps below me.
I knew I had caused some significant damage to the screen before my eyes could dare to take a look at the wreckage, by the audible echo it produced up the stairwell. If anyone has damaged their iPhone screen before, they could easily draw up the mathematics here that I would at least be £50 out of pocket this month.
Hence, I gave another vocal sigh, started working out in my head the impossibility of how I could fit myself in to see the phone doctor around my busy schedule, and carried on with my day, little of knowing there was more displeasing incidents to follow.
I soon shrugged off the incidence as ‘Oh well, such is life,’ and finally got to my car to drive home. I popped my earphones in, and welcomed a voice of one of my many companions for my journey (this week it was a dramatic reading of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park), and got settled in to the story.
At this point I must defend myself here – yes, I am fully aware of the dangers of the distraction brought along with not only fully engaging in an audiobook rather than what I am doing on the road, but also using my earphones to drown out all sounds around me – but I do drive for three hours a day for work, what else is a girl to do in rush hour traffic?
On this occasion, I am ashamed to admit that it must have took me at least 50 minutes to realise the screeching, no – god awful grinding noise – that was coming from my brakes. The absolute panic arose in me, followed by a frantic effort to type ‘WHY IS MY CAR MAKING A HORRIBLE NOISE’ in to a search engine on my phone and squinting through it’s shattered screen to find that the majority of advice concluded by Yahoo answers was; Stop driving.
Fortunately I made it home, gave a vocal sigh, started working out in my head the impossibility of how I could fit myself in to see the car doctor around my busy schedule, and carried on with my night, little of knowing there was more displeasing incidents the next day to follow.
By 8pm I was tucked up safe in my bed, and whether it was the infection or the build up of stressful events of the day – or both – made the conscious decision to take some time off work, and settled down for the night.
The following day, after many half-arsed attempts from The Boy to get me out of bed, I finally woke. It was 1pm. And I was absolutely exhausted, in pain and felt utter rotten. Yep, my water infection had succeeded in invading my system even further, and I could barely wake myself up. I had a painful day of recurrent fevers, sweating, nausea, and a headache from hell that a small handful of painkillers failed to shift. If I can recall correctly through my fog of a memory of that horrendous afternoon, there was even an episode of tears. The only good fate of the day, being that I had predicted my relentless state and decided to take action and notify work that for that one Wednesday at least; I was done for.
Of course, when you work in clinical research, the heavy workload demands you back on your feet when you get knocked down. With this requirement, having a fuzzy head and a car booked in at the local mechanics, I was driven in to work by The Boy the following day.
My only ever sickness day of the year and of course, shit went down. The emails were piled up, recent developments erupted on studies which had otherwise been laying dormant the past few months, people were panicked. I felt like shit and my kidneys were hurting. Whilst I was juggling three things at once, running to the toilet to throw my coffees up, and multiple people stopping me to politely tell me that I ‘looked at shit as I probably felt’ – I got a phone call of the mechanic.
‘Your brakes are sorted, we’ve also tightened up some jiggly bits [insert car related lingo here as appropriate]. That will be £160 please.’
Fuck.
Mother of actual fucks for this to happen on the month I was skint anyway -the very month of my Daughter’s birthday, the month my washing machine brakes down, the month where the floor deliberately decided to shatter my phone screen, the month where I also had to pay an unexpected £20 prescription charge for I’d realised my NHS exemption had expired. Fucketty, fuck, fuck, fuck.
With my ever so pounding head, I ran to the toilet to chuck again after that, and kicked myself in the shin for not taking that additional time off to stay in bed.
The Boy picked me up after what seemed to be the longest 8 hours a person could ever endure, and I let out the biggest rant of life is not fair and why is it always me! that could be expected after the unfortunate past few days. We sat a typical two hours in traffic together, no audiobooks in tow, and played childish games of One or the Other. He made me smile, the first smiles of the week. We talked, told jokes, made plans. It was the best I’d felt for what felt like mini eternity, and I even forgot about the headache that had seemed to have settled in and made a cosy home in my temples.
And then; he pissed me off.
For his God defying sake, I will not go in to the details of his selfish stupidity – but all in one I felt the wrath of the hellish week that had bestowed on me – much to his disadvantage. I cried. I just broke down and I sobbed. The boy had realised then, how much of a toll this week and him not making it any better and sat beside me (who was on the bed curled up in a foetal position, clutching at my knees like a child).
This is a scene that is expected of anyone, regardless of their mental health status, after such events. What is not expected, is the following…
Me; Stalling in my sobs and staring across the room startled.
The Boy; ‘Are you okay?’
Me; continues to distantly stare across the room, embarrassing display of emotion still on hold.
The Boy; ‘Megan, what is it?’
He looks at the wall. Then turns back around to me. I break my gaze and catch his eye. Then, startling him in the most unexpected and freakish way, I burst out uncontrollably in the biggest fit of laughter.
I laughed. I laughed so fucking hard, that even more tears ran down my face. My body scrunched up even further; unable to breath through my uncomprehendable outburst of emotion, my body shaking violently next to him.
The Boy just looked at me in silence. He just sat there, bewildered at the manic mess that was myself, wondering why the hell I was in the state that I was when a few blinks before I was a blubbering baby.
A minute passed by, before I was even able to manage to compose myself enough to communicate with him.
‘Why the fuck are you laughing?’ He asked, a look of concern and confusion across his face.
For I was not laughing for the unfortunate events that had contributed to my disastrous week, no. I was laughing because in that moment, the light switch which was on my wall across the room, looked like Pingu the Penguin’s younger Brother.
And in my heightened state, I’d lost all control of my emotion. That guys, is a glimmer of Bipolar mania in all it’s glory. To conclude the night, I later realised that I accidentally had skipped a few of my meds the week before.
Here’s to hoping – for my sake and the sake’s of those around me – that next week bring better days.
THE MANIC YEARS 
Leave a Reply