It's nearly midnight on this cold Friday evening, and seeing as I haven't written one of these pieces in a while, I thought I'd turn what could be a couple of hours of extra boredom and write down a few thoughts.
November really wasn't a good month for me. Despite it being the month where I celebrated my 31st birthday, it felt like at times that nothing really good was going to happen to me. I hit a steep downward spiral, and it seemed like at times that I couldn't find the way back. There just didn't seem to be any light at the end of the tunnel.
A major contribution to my downward mood this month was the first anniversary of Shane's death. My aged Labrador died on the 5th of November 2001. Paul said I should try and celebrate his life, not mourn his passing. I tried, but I just couldn't do it.
Then, on the 8th, our aged feline tabby, Scruff, suffered her first "turn". When a cat that normally makes no sound suddenly cries out in pain, you know something is wrong. Paul rushed her over to the vet, where she made a recovery after an injection of steroids. But old father time eventually caught up with her. She suffered two more attacks within the next few weeks, and she died towards the end of the month, from kidney failure, aged 11. Rest in peace, my little friend.
So as my darkened mood continued, I made several trips to see Dr. Lennox. The doc has helped me out a hell of a lot these past months, but if truth be known, I hate going to the surgery. It's just so fucking depressing, and it's got to the point where my conversations with the doc were nothing more than polite little chit chats, not really doing me any good at all.
So towards the end of the month, I suffered a massive panic attack while in Cromer. I was literally stranded on the Meadow playing field, so much so that Paul had to go there from work to collect me. I literally couldn't move, I was that bad.
Paul is the one member of the family I've been able to count on this year, but perhaps at times he's a little too nice. He wanted me to go and see the doc again, but I really couldn't see the point.
So guess who dragged my ass out of the fire? Guess who pulled my head out of my backside, and pointed me towards the light. My best buddy Julia again.
Julia really amazes me. Here is a woman who is going through tons of her own personal shit at the moment, and she still is able to set me straight. Although Julia is as good as family, unlike Paul, she's able to tell me like it is. She gave me a right bollocking. Put my head straight on a hell of a lot of things. Made me realize that I couldn't go around doing the old "woe is me" bit for the rest of my natural life.
I've said this before, and I'll say it again, but Julia is probably one of the best friends I have ever had. Unlike some other people I considered friends, she accepts me for what I am. When I first became ill at the end of May, she took me under her wing, cared for me, made sure I was okay, and took some of the strain off Paul.
To this day I wonder, why did she do it? Why did she help me in the way that she did? I think the answer to this question is a simple one - because Julia is a true friend. Someone I can count on. She may not be able to be there for me 24/7, but I know that, as a friend, as a surrogate sister, I can always count on her. Thanks mate!
And let's not forget that old fossil you're married to as well! Thanks bud!
What could have helped my mood these past few days as well is the little "closet cleaning" exercise I've been undertaking. I sent an e-mail to someone I thought was a friend, and a letter to the man who started all of this shit in the first place.
I've known Teresa ever since she started work at the garden centre five years ago. She has gone through quite a bit of personal shit herself, and I like to think that yours truly did his little bit to help her along the way. I stood up for her, set people straight when they started to badmouth her, and looked out for her, because that's what I thought friends did for each other.
But when push came to shove, Teresa just wasn't there for me. In the past six months, I had just one e-mail from her. Now, I know that she's got her own life to lead, and her own set of problems, but it upset the hell out of me that this "friend" of mine couldn't take a few minutes out of her life just to see how I was. When you're down, when you're suffering from this kind of illness, there are three words that mean the absolute world to you - "how are you?", and when you don't hear those words from someone you thought was a close friend, it hurts, it really fucking hurts.
In her one e-mail to me, she told me that I was always in her thoughts. Well, thinking about someone, and getting in touch with someone telling them you are thinking of them are two entirely separate things. So a few days ago, I e-mailed her letting her know how I was, and saying a few things I just had to say.
Around the same time I wrote a letter to Mark Edwards, the idiot who brought the garden centre from the Smeda family. Without a doubt, Edwards was the cause of my illness. Yet when he first found out I was ill, while I was still under his employment, he made no attempt at all to get in touch with me to find out how I was, and when he found out that he was the reason for my illness, offered no apology.
So I wrote him a letter, getting a few things off my chest, basically saying that I found it fucking disgusting that the only time he telephoned me was to hurl abuse at me, and that he not once asked how I was, or offered any sort of apology with regards to his treatment of me.
I haven't had any replies from either Teresa or Edwards, and to be quite honest with you, I doubt that I will.
But this little exercise of mine, coupled with Julia's bollocking a few days beforehand, seems to have done the trick. Despite the fact I'm suffering from a really sore throat right now, I fell good, the best I have in months.
I'm off to bed now. The zispin is starting to kick in. Better save this to disk before I lapse into sleep. See ya all around sometime!