Well, here we are. The end of the road. Or more accurately, me stepping off the roundabout before I end up face-first in the mud with my arse in the air.
I started Who Stole My Dopamine back in 20211 with the naive thought that maybe, just maybe, sharing my misadventures with Parkinson’s, parenting, and the general absurdity of being alive might help.2 Help me, help you, help anyone who stumbled in here by accident looking for actual medical advice (sorry about that).
And what a ride it’s been.
You’ve let me rant about the price of bananas, share the intimate horrors of sports bras, and moan about the weather in Scotland (17ºC and grey). You’ve read along as I tied myself in knots literally, with jumpers stuck over my head and you’ve cheered me on when I tried to make dignity and Parkinson’s hold hands, however briefly.
But most importantly: you’ve written back. My inbox has been full of your stories — funny, filthy, touching, heartbreaking, and occasionally so bizarre I’ve had to check whether it was me or you who was off their meds. You’ve been generous, you’ve been kind, and you’ve made me laugh harder than I thought possible while discussing drool, tremors, and collapsing into laundry baskets.
That community? That solidarity? That’s the good stuff. That’s dopamine.
But here’s the truth: my energy now has to go elsewhere. Parkinson’s is greedy. It wants all of me. And I want to save a little bit for my art, so I can spend the next years creating something daft and beautiful — ideally with one hand on a paintbrush and the other reaching for a glass of wine. (The wine rack, by the way, remains a non-negotiable medical necessity.)
There’s also my daughter off to college, living her own life, no longer stuck with the worry of a declining parent front and centre. And I want to offer you the same freedom. You don’t need to keep slogging through my typo-ridden, wine-splattered newsletters. You’re free. Go! Be unburdened! Wear whatever bloody socks you like!
I’m stepping away before this becomes just another sad, slow chronicle of decline. You deserve better. We all do.
So this is me saying goodbye. Thank you for every story, every laugh, every bit of love you’ve thrown my way. You’ve kept me upright, at least metaphorically, when my actual body refused to cooperate.
Remember that degeneration isn’t next week. You are still you. And humour is armour even when your trousers are backwards and your bra strap has staged a full-scale rebellion.
I’ll still be out there, just in a different form. Covered in paint, muttering at canvases, possibly still swearing about tights. If you see a woman in the corner of an art fair who looks like she’s lost a fight with her own shoes… come say hello.
With love, with gratitude, and with one final fuck you to Parkinson’s
Emma xxx
P.S. My art lives over at EmmaStubbs.uk if you want to say hi.
Maybe…I have no accurate memory :)
I’ll leave this Substack open so folks can still read and access the archive 😘