It’s nearly that time of year again.
The day that I dread more than any other. The day that sends me reeling into panic attacks, has me bursting out into tears for no reason, snapping at friends, hiding under my duvet, waiting…just waiting for it to pass.
On Sunday, it will be 8 years since the hit and run.
Eight years of reliving, remembering, regretting leaving the house that morning.
To many of you, that won’t mean anything. To others, you’ll know what hell it has been to get here. Only a few know how hard it is to still get up most mornings, wondering how long it will take for the pain to arrive, knowing that almost certainly by the end of the day my back, or shoulder, or hip, or knee, or sometimes all of them, will be locked into spasm and I’ll once again be diving into my medicine box, trying to work out which combination of meds will get me through the night.
I am, it has to be said, a lot better than I was a few years ago. There is some kind of improvement. Most days, I can get up and make it to work. I’m no longer bed-ridden for days or weeks at a time. I move more freely than I did back then. Occasionally, I get by with only a little twinge here and there. But no matter what brave face you put on things, being in constant pain is exhausting. I can’t remember what it feels like NOT to hurt. And that’s not nice, I can assure you.
The battles over compensation are still ongoing. I need to go back to the hospital to try to fix my hip. And I wish, more than anything, I could just have one, good, pure nights sleep. They still never come.
It genuinely shocks me to say it out loud, you know. EIGHT YEARS. Eight years of fighting. Of wishing this would go away. Of hoping that the next specialist I visit will actually be able to help. Of desperately needing someone to be able to say that one day – no matter how far in the future – this won’t hurt anymore. But I fear now, that it’s taken this long, that that day will never come. And it’s kind of sad really.
I don’t want to live like this forever. But I guess that’s not my choice. Someone took that away from me, and I have to remember to accept that.
I’m not a weak person. I try not to dwell. I am eternally grateful for the people who put up with, and pull me through the dark days, and make me laugh and fill me with love on the brighter ones. It’s just sad, that I don’t get to leave this behind. That it still has the power to affect me physically, and emotionally, on such a regular basis. And at this time of year, more than ever.
Worse things happen to better people.
Next week will be better.