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The Grape Depression
Where Emma ponders guilt.
Hello and a huge welcome to all my new friends here. I’m delighted to have you on this
insane inspired journey :) To my regulars…I’m overwhelmed by your lovely messages. I do try to reply to you, apologies if I miss anyone!
Isn’t January the biggest arsewipe of a month? That would be why I am doing a fully saturated Wine-uary. None of the dry-vegany stuff for me lest it leads to the Grape Depression. The coldest, greyest and most cheerless time of the year is not the moment to deprive myself of the few pleasures I enjoy. And no, I have not one iota of guilt.
Talking of guilt, there’s nothing like a degenerative disease to drive you to the confessional with the speed of a teenage girl texting the latest gossip.
My nickname at school was Satan. Truly. This honorific was devised by a very astute friend who understood that even at a young age I had no guilt chip. By which he meant I took responsibility for my actions and generally was comfortable in the decisions I had made. Rarely did I experience regret or guilt. Yes, I was an obnoxiously bold teen.
So when I started experiencing the guilt of having Parkinson’s it came as shock. In lieu of actual confession, I’m going to spill to you, dearest reader.
The teens are up later than usual, hassling for chocolate, gaming, movies, general attention - it’s just Wednesday. Damn the weeks are long, no wonder they want a weekend style evening to relieve the monotony of school, college and work routines. I do too.
But I feel self-conscious, anxious and conflicted. The temptation to shove them off to bed is overpowering, suffocating. My heart feels squeezed. The dystonia is raging. Out of its nasty little box, it bites, twists and shudders its way into my leg and foot. The pain withers my resistance.
I don’t want them to see it. I don’t have the energy this late to patter out jokes. The concern that rests in their eyes and furrows their youthful brows is unwelcome. I feel the guilt sweep over me, crushing until I can barely breathe.
Mr P wheedles his vile poison into another moment. He is everywhere now and so is the guilt. Everything becomes about me.
I don’t want every detail of our lives to be dependent on whether my Parkinson’s will play ball.
None of us knows the future, I understand that. But committing to a life where every day can differ so radically from the last or the next feels deceptive. My partner now has as uncertain a future as mine.
My friendships have prohibitive demands, straining them until we just send the occasional text. My socialising comes with so many maybes, can'ts, and that ‘special’ Parky apathy. My brain has lost its starter motor. Even when conditions are favourable my dickhead brain grinds me to a halt. Frankly, just getting up to the loo some days is a major victory of the apathetic fog.
I suspect I need a PA. Who can gently push me forward, cheerlead me into excitement, gatekeep the unnecessary crapflow. And yes, I realise that has to come from me. But it feels, from where I sit on the sofa managing a contorting foot, a very big mountain to climb.
Especially as I don’t think I can find boots to fit.
P.S. If anything I’ve mentioned here hits a note then drop me a reply!